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SELECTED POEMS 
OF 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



WITH MATTHEW ARNOLD'S 
ESSAY ON WORDSWORTH 



EDITED BY 

HARRISON ROSS STEEVES, Ph.D. 

Associate Professor of English in Columbia University 




NEW YORK 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 



^ 



51 



COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 



©CU659276 



PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY 

THE QUINN a BOOEN COMPANY 
RAHWAY. U. J. 

MAR -V 1922 



PREFACE 

The purpose of this volume is more than to present 
Wordsworth's work in little, with a kindly appreciative 
essay. The selection of the poems and the choice of the 
essay have been guided by the conviction that together 
they constitute an unusually clear and grateful introduc- 
tion to the serious study of poetry. For this purpose 
I have ventured to divide the poems into sections of re- 
lated kinds, and to present them in the order of readiest 
approach. Such an arrangement naturally invites criti- 
cism; but that it is not illogical in the case of Words- 
worth may be seen in the fact that with maturer pur- 
poses in view, both Wordsworth and Arnold adopted 
classification of a like sort. The order of the poems in 
each grouping is almost strictly that of the dates of 
composition (so far as they are known), with a few 
exceptions where the relations of certain pieces make 
a different sequence desirable. The chronology used is 
that of Mr. Hutchinson's valuable Oxford Edition. 

The text is eclectic. In the main, preference has been 
given to the earlier readings of the early poems. Yet if 
Wordsworth is to be seen at his best, it is quite as neces- 
sary to use a later version of Simon Lee as to use the 
first of Laodamia. It is believed that the selection is 
sufficiently large and varied to allow wide choice of ma- 
terial for study. 

In the appendix I have risked adverse judgment as to 
the wisdom of offering illustrations of Wordsworth's 
writing in its unhappier and less effective aspects. It 
seems to me, however, that if Wordsworth's poetry may 
be taken — and I think it may — as a touchstone of poetic 
quality, there is a substantial something to be gained by 
showing where and how it may fail. 

January, 1921. H. R. S. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction vii 

Wordsworth, by Matthew Arnold .... i 
Selected Poems of Wordsworth 

Shorter Narratives and Poems of Reminiscence 23 

Longer Narratives 57 

Lyric- 99 

Reflective and Didactic Poems . . . .121 

Sonnets 133 

Odes 143 

Passages from The Prelude and The Excursion 155 
Appendix of Illustrative Passages . . . .183 

Chronology of Arnold's Life 195 

Chronology of the Life of Wordsworth . . 196 

Notes 199 

Index 207 



INTRODUCTION 

The relation between a great poet and an important critic 
is seldom more complete and more happy than in the 
case of Arnold and Wordsworth. This is true not only 
because the two belonged to the same general movement 
in our literary history — although their active careers were 
separated by a half-century. It is true primarily because 
they are both apostles of reasoned optimism and of spir- 
itual balance, as opposed to the passionate individualism 
of Byron and Shelley, Wordsworth's contemporaries. It 
is true also because they are both discerning judges of 
realities, and wise critics of the pet political and commer- 
cial illusions of their day; and it is true, finally, because 
Arnold knew Wordsworth to be at his best one of the 
most gifted and most genuine of English poets. 

It is a common misconception that the typical poet's 
mind can not work in a normal way, a misconception that 
arises in part out of the prosaic drift of the average life. 
When we speak of the poet's inspiration, we usually think 
of an impulse that lies quite outside of his work-day mind; 
and the sense of the externality of this impulse not infre- 
quently leads us to feel that the poet is not to be ap- 
proached with the serene reasonableness that we bring 
to every-day things. In Wordsworth's poems we con- 
front no such bogey of inspiration. Though the inspira- 
tion is emphatically there — in the sense that he has that 
perfect fluency and certainty of utterance combined with 
imaginative suggestion which the best of poetry must pos- 
sess — there is nevertheless little or none of the taxing in- 
genuity of phrase, the strained magnificence, the excessive 
refinement of images and ideas, that many ages have 
regarded as the marks of superlative poetical accomplish- 
ment. The greatest of ancient critics, Aristotle, distin- 



viii INTRODUCTION 

guishes between the inspiration that amounts to possession 
by an overwhelming and revealing emotional force, and 
the inspiration, on the other hand, which proceeds from 
a placid study of life and deliberate habits of work. 
Wordsworth was inspired in this latter wise, inspired to 
deal thoughtfully and reverently with man and the world 
of nature ever newly brought before his vision. It is 
this fact that makes Wordsworth a poet of unusually easy 
approach. In him there is a simple reading of life which 
is conveyed through designedly simple verse-forms and 
vocabulary. 

This simplicity of aim and manner in Wordsworth 
makes him for Arnold a good example of what is ele- 
mental and indispensable in poetry of unquestioned qual- 
ity. Arnold's own mind was, like the ethical Victorian 
type, concerned primarily with sincerity and seriousness 
as the traits of character which must precede artistic 
endeavor. The outstanding purpose of poetry was in his 
view to present a true image of life — of true life, that 
is — not the exceptional nor the bizarre, but the life that 
inward responses and the background of the race's social 
experience show us to be both useful and sweet. This 
purpose Arnold found consummately realized in the work 
of Wordsworth. The body of Wordsworth's work is fre- 
quently without many features that have distinguished 
individual poets — the lavish pictorial effects of Tenny- 
son, the cleverness and flare of Byron, the supreme dig- 
nity of Milton — but its freedom from characteristics 
which may be exploited is the very fact that makes the 
best of it in a way the common denominator of poetical. 
attainments. Arnold's essay, concerned with the plain but 
positive virtues of Wordsworth's writing, is therefore 
more than a commentary upon the work of an individual 
poet; it is a discourse upon poetry itself, filled with wis- 
dom and with honest critical sejise. 



INTRODUCTION ix 



MATTHEW ARNOLD* 

Arnold, as the son of the great Thomas Arnold, Master 
of Rugby, possessed by birth and environment a high 
sense of the value of cultivation, and of great literature, 
principally classic, as the first means of securing that 
cultivation. His mind was instinctively responsive to 
these influences, and throughout his maturing years at 
Rugby and Oxford, his Professorship of Poetry at Ox- 
ford, and his later busy occupation as Inspector of 
Schools and lecturer, he grew in his originally high re- 
gard for the life of expanded mental interests and of 
reflection. In his public appearances and utterances he 
stood so uncompromisingly for this " aristocracy of in- 
tellect " that his power was exerted most importantly 
through his appeals to the ruling and influential classes. 
To these he almost always directed his social criticism, 
with the result that before his death he had come to be 
regarded as one of the great leaders of conservative 
opinion. 

Arnold, like Coleridge and Emerson, was of the type 
that combines the poetical view and grasp of life with 
a powerful and increasing interest in moral discourse. 
Like them, he sacrificed a youthful fondness for writing 
poetry — in his own case after more than mediocre prom- 
ise — to what seemed to him the more constructive pur- 
pose of teaching people how to live. And the cardinal 
point in this teaching was his creed of " culture." It is 
unnecessary to suggest more than briefly what the sub- 
stance of this creed was, for he himself has given it to 
us with his condescending gentleness of tone, yet con- 
vincing seriousness, in his essay " Sweetness and Light." 
His central idea, however, was that culture — as he de- 
fined it, " a knowledge of the best that has been thought 
and said in the world " — illumines and strengthens mod- 
em life by bringing both the history of the race and 

* For the chronology of Arnold's life and works see p. J95. 



X INTRODUCTION 

its spiritual sense to bear upon all the problems of so- 
ciety, " making reason and the will of God prevail." He 
professed little patience with the snobbery of intellect, 
but demanded that the cultured should possess and use 
their culture for beneficent ends. A culture not so used 
was to him as fanciful a patent of real superiority, as aris- 
tocratic birth without the acceptance of the responsibility 
that attaches to it. However, his very appearance as 
the champion of culture against the industrial preoccupa- 
tions and slothfulness of mind of the rising middle classes 
gave birth to distrust and aversion on the part of the 
worshippers of material success, whom he habitually 
called the " Philistines." This failure to establish him- 
self completely in the general confidence was also due 
in part to a half native and half academic touch of the 
intellectual snobbery which he himself so earnestly depre- 
cated, and by an instinctive distaste for pure democracy; 
for like many of his thoughtful contemporaries, he felt 
that " the truth was not to be found by the counting of 
noses." On the whole, though, the timeliness and good 
sense of Arnold's addresses and essays made his message 
scarcely less profitable and no less necessary for the men 
of his time than Carlyle's gospel of work or Ruskin's 
repeated plea for sincerity of endeavor. 

Arnold's interest in the diffusion of culture naturally 
placed great emphasis upon an acquaintance with litera- 
ture. Literature, indeed, is always viewed in his writings 
as a means of spiritual perfection and a mirror of human 
ideals and interpretations of life. His books On Trans- 
lathig Homer and On the Study of Celtic Literature 
are illustrations of his abiding zest for the instruction 
contained in the views and habits of other races as pic- 
tured in their literature. The literature of the Bible held 
the same place in his esteem that it has held for many 
cultivated Englishmen for three centuries or more — not 
only, or primarily, as a body of doctrine, but as a power- 
fully penetrating human record, to be read with reason as 
well as faith. 



INTRODUCTION xi 

Arnold's essays in purely literary criticism belong 
largely to his later years, and are in the main less point- 
edly directed to moral teaching than his early lectures 
and his writings on Biblical literature, though they are 
permeated by his sense that great literature should — or 
does — teach us how to live. These writings include most 
importantly his very widely known essay on The Study 
of Poetry — the most comprehensive expression of his 
literary doctrines, a modest sheaf of essays upon French 
writers and French literary tendencies, and particularly, 
for us, a very stimulating and sage volume of essays (the 
Second Series of Essays in Criticisfn) upon eminent 
English poets, including Milton, Gray, Keats, Byron, Shel- 
ley, and Wordsworth. These last essays have probably more 
than his other literary writings established his place as a 
critic. His outstanding critical virtues are the breadth and 
cosmopolitanism of his literary acquaintance, sound judicial 
sense, a peculiar aptness in illustrative quotation (often 
serving him in place of really precise formulation of criti- 
cal pronouncements), and finally, and most typically, a 
careful weighing of his personal reactions in the light 
of his underlying assurance that the great function of 
literature, of poetry especially, is a moral one. His judg- 
ments of individual figures are always given with quiet 
force and firm confidence in their rightness. All of these 
traits are readily recognized in the essay on Wordsworth, 
one of the best of all because of its sympathy, and the 
clearness of the poetical philosophy expounded in it. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH * 

Wordsworth's effective poetical career stands at the 
very opening of the nineteenth century, and at the be- 
ginning of the quarter-century which also gave to Eng- 
land Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Shelley, and Keats. This 
entire group belongs to what has been called "the Ro- 

* For the chronology of Wordsworth's life and works see 
p. 196. 



xii INTRODUCTION 

mantic Reaction " — that is, to the movement of declared 
or implied protest against the conventionalism and re- 
stricted opportunity of eighteenth century poetry, as seen, 
for example, in the v^orks of Alexander Pope. The 
forms that this -romantic impulse took were diverse. In 
Scott it was shown principally as a fondness for the 
atmosphere of medieval legend; in Shelley as a bitter 
outcry against the social injuries of his day; in Words- 
worth as a deep sensitiveness to nature, which gradually 
merged with his social sympathies to create the concep- 
tion of nature as a sentient inspiration and guide for 
humanity. In all these poets there was also a liberation 
from the subservience of the majority of early eighteenth 
century poets to the particular verse form known as the 
" heroic couplet " * ; but we need not emphasize this point 
here, as its importance hinges upon a larger knowledge of 
the literature of the preceding age. To regard these ro- 
mantic poets as a school, however, is scarcely proper, as 
there is no unifying principle in mere departure from 
older ideas and practices. As men and as poets they 
were too individual to be casually grouped. What they 
possessed in common was largely the result of the tonic 
life of their time; for they stood at the turning-point in 
European history which followed the French Revolution. 
The height of their collective attainment, however, 
reached and sustained by the many excitant influences in 
the new political order of things, marks a transforma- 
tion in poetical taste that is quite as remarkable in its 
way as the political reconstruction through which they 
were living. 

Wordsworth's particular part in this transformation 
was to create or revive a taste for realities in the pres- 
entation of life, and to displace the exaggerated poetic 
imagery and the strained figurative diction of the previ- 
ous age,2 or, to quote his own plain phrase, "to choose 
incidents and situations from common life, and to relate 

Note : — Reference numbers throughout text indicate notes at 
back of book. 



INTRODUCTION xiii 

or describe them throughout, as far as possible in a selec- 
tion of language really used by men." The justification 
of this aim was in Wordsworth's heart a moral one. His 
scenes are chosen largely from " humble and rustic life " 
because it seems to him more simple, more frank, and 
more open to the benign influences of nature. The lan- 
guage which fits these characters and scenes is to Words- 
worth's belief effective because it is more permanent, 
freer from " social vanity," and, through its very sim- 
plicity, incapable of lending a poetic air to unpoetic or 
ignoble ideas. It is but a step from these high pleas 
for directness and sincerity in poetry to the assertion 
of a definite moral purpose for poetry, though Words- 
worth means by this not that every poem shall convey 
the "moral" of a fable, but that the whole substance of 
a poet's writing shall present general truths, leaving the 
reader with " his understanding enlightened and his affec- 
tions strengthened and purified." 

Much more of Wordsworth's exalted and severe sense 
of the poet's art is to be found in the preface to the 
second edition of the Lyrical Ballads, issued in 1800. But 
the pervading spiritual element in his poetry, of which 
he was solemnly conscious, is only cursorily discussed in 
this document : that is, his reverence for nature as a direct 
source of spiritual guidance. His keen and confident 
"love of nature" — and the phrase is no mere phrase 
to Wordsworth — and its effect upon his beliefs and asso- 
ciations, are to be seen most completely and impressively 
in his poems of introspective reminiscence, such as the 
Lines Written above Tint em Abbey, and On the 
Influence of Natural Objects, and in passages from the 
long autobiographical poem called The Prelude. No 
prose could with equal beauty or conviction reveal the 
intense depth of his faith in nature, for he felt it as the 
very voice and sign of God. 

In Wordsworth's poetry these aims are surprisingly 
realized. First of all, because he does see his subject 
steadily, rarely minutely, but with a sharp eye for de- 



xiv INTRODUCTION 

scriptive truth. In the second place, the simple phrase is 
with him the telling phrase, not always, as he thought, 
because it was more wholesome, but because it was the 
one correct artistic medium for his subject. These two 
elements seem to be the certain source of his power, for 
his greatest works are, in the general view, the lyrics 
and the narrative poems which combine in so impressively 
right a way this " objectivity," as we call it today, and 
this felicitous choice and movement of phrase. The 
" Lucy poems " and Michael are both in their way 
examples of rarely perfect poetry, unpretentious and 
undecorated. 

It is not difficult to see, however, that the creed of 
simple situations and simple diction could be followed to 
a not altogether happy conclusion. To Wordsworth's 
mind, unfortunately devoid of humor, the distinction was 
difficult between a theme of importance, sufficient in its 
native dignity for adequate though simple treatment, and 
one trivial, or even comically suggestive, that could not 
be so treated. To many readers the Idiot Boy is sense- 
less (the one defect that Wordsworth denied .in any of 
his poems) ; to others it is foolish. Few readers can see 
in Peter Bell any more than a trite subject, uninten- 
tionally comic passages, and tame moralizing. It was this 
that made Wordsworth very susceptible to parody and 
very sensitive to it, and that accounts for his perverse 
indifference to well-meant criticism and his scathing re- 
sentment of criticism less generously intended. 

Beyond the primary source of Wordsworth's poetic im- 
pulse in his early and intimate contact with the beauty 
of the English Lake Country and in his reflective habit 
of mind, there is a peculiar dependence upon the close 
friendships of his productive years. Largely under the 
encouragement of his sister Dorothy and his friend 
Coleridge, he brought out within a very few years the 
greater part of the small proportion of his work by 
which he really holds his literary place. The period 
might be given roughly as 1797 to 1807. What he wrote 



INTRODUCTION xv 

after that time is in bulk large, but hopelessly out of 
proportion to its worth. With maturing years, recon- 
sidered radical views, and increasing independence and 
ease in his home life, he gradually gained a public which 
admired him for what he had long before accomplished. 
There can be little doubt as to the connection between 
the intellectual ferment of his earlier years and the ready 
and fluent production of that period. This is not to 
imply that the verse of his earlier years is in any sense 
the emotional overflow of an unripened mind; for it was 
peculiarly not that. He was not, in the first place, a 
youthful poet — if he had died as young as Keats, the 
world would never have heard of him — and his poems 
were even at his most effervescent moments remarkable 
for their gravity and reserve. The fact is simply that 
when life became for him a settled thing, he practically 
ceased to write poetry of the first quality. An interest- 
ing mental turning-point is to be seen in his Ode to 
Duty, written in 1805. 

The shift in political and social convictions which fol- 
lowed his early devotion to the cause of the French Revo- 
lutionists was merely one phase of his change to con- 
servatism. His radical sympathies were not laid to rest 
either by cowardice or self-interest, but his spirit could 
not accept nor assimilate the tragic but temporary failure 
of progressive movements. His later years were re- 
markable for their relative eventlessness, both inner and 
outer, and his comfortable acceptance of a very gradu- 
ally but surely increasing public approval. In 1843, two 
score years after his poetic prime, he secured the dis- 
tinction of appointment to the Laureateship. 



WORDSWORTH 

By 
Matthew Arnold 



WORDSWORTH 

By Matthew Arnold * 

I REMEMBER hearing Lord Macaulay say, after Words- 
worth's death, when subscriptions were being collected 
to found a memorial of him, that ten years earlier more 
money could have been raised in Cambridge alone, to do 
honour to Wordsworth, than was now raised all through 
the country. Lord Macaulay had, as we know, his own 
heightened and telling way of putting things, and we 
must always make allowance for it. But probably it is 
true that Wordsworth has never, either before or since, 
been so accepted and popular, so established in possession 
of the minds of all who profess to care for poetry, as he 
was between the years 1830 and 1840, and at Cambridge. 
From the very first, no doubt, he had his believers and 
witnesses. But I have myself heard him declare that, for 
he knew not how many years, his poetry had never 
brought him in enough to buy his shoe-strings. The 
poetry-reading public was very slow to recognise him, and 
was very easily drawn away from him. Scott effaced 
him with this public ; Byron effaced him. 

The death of Byron seemed, however, to make an 
opening for Wordsworth. Scott, who had for some time 
ceased to produce poetry himself, and stood before the 
public as a great novelist; Scott, too genuine himself not 
to feel the profound genuineness of Wordsworth, and 
with an instinctive recognition of his firm hold on nature 
and of his local truth, always admired him sincerely, and 

* Arnold's essay on Wordszvorth was published as the preface 
to his volume of selections from Wordsworth's poems in 1879, 
and in 1888 was included in his Essays in Criticism, Second 
Series. 



2 WORDSWORTH 

praised him generously. The influence of Coleridge 
upon young men of ability was ihen powerful, and was 
still gathering strength ; this influence told entirely in 
favour of Wordsworth's poetry. Cambridge was a place 
where Coleridge's influence had great action, and where 
Wordsworth's poetry, therefore, flourished especially. 
But even amongst the general public its sale grew large, 
the eminence of its author was widely recognised, and 
Rydal Mount * became an object of pilgrimage. I remem- 
ber Wordsworth relating how one of the pilgrims, a 
clergyman, asked him if he had ever written anything 
besides the Guide to the Lakes. Yes, he answered 
modestly, he had written verses. Not every pilgrim was 
a reader, but the vogue was established, and the stream 
of pilgrims came. 

Mr. Tennyson's decisive appearance dates from 1842.' 
One cannot say that he effaced Wordsworth as Scott and 
Byron had effaced him. The poetry of Wordsworth had 
been so long before the public, the suffrage of good judges 
was so steady and so strong in its favour, that by 1842 
the verdict of posterity, one may almost say, had been 
already pronounced, and Wordsworth's English fame was 
secure. But the vogue, the ear and applause of the great 
body of poetry-readers, never quite thoroughly perhaps 
his, he gradually lost more and more, and Mr. Tennyson 
gained them. Mr. Tennyson drew to himself, and away 
from Wordsworth, the poetry-reading public, and the 
new generations. Even in 1850, when Wordsworth 
died, this diminution of popularity was visible, and 
occasioned the remark of Lord Macaulay which I quoted 
at starting. 

The diminution has continued. The influence of 
Coleridge has waned, and Wordsworth's poetry can no 
longer draw succour from this ally. The poetry has not. 
however, wanted eulogists; and it may be said to have 
brought its eulogists luck, for almost every one who has 
praised Wordsworth's poetry has praised it well. But 
the public has remained cold, or, at least, undetermined. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 3 

Even the abundance of Mr. Palgrave's fine and skilfully 
chosen specimens of Wordsworth, in the Golden Treas- 
ury,' surprised many readers, and gave offence to not 
a iew. To tenth-rate critics and compilers, for v^hom 
any violent shock to the public taste would be a temerity 
not to be risked, it is still quite permissible to speak of 
Wordsworth's poetry, not only with ignorance, but with 
impertinence. On the Continent he is almost unknown. 
I cannot think, then, that Wordsworth has, up to this 
time, at all obtained his deserts. " Glory," said M. 
Renan * the other day, " glory after all is the thing which 
has the best chance of not being altogether vanity." 
Wordsworth was a homely man, and himself would cer- 
tainly never have thought of talking of glory as that 
which, after all, has the best chance of not being alto- 
gether vanity. Yet we may well allow that few things are 
less vain than real glory. Let us conceive of the whole 
group of civilised nations as being, for intellectual and 
spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to 
a joint action and working towards a common result; 
a confederation whose members have a due knowl- 
edge both of the past, out of which they all proceed, 
and of one another. This was the ideal of Goethe," 
and it is an ideal which will impose itself upon the 
thoughts of our modern societies more and more. Then 
to be recognised by the verdict of such a confederation as 
a master, or even as a seriously and eminently worthy 
workman, in one's own line of intellectual or spiritual 
activity, is indeed glory; a glory which it would be 
difficult to rate too highly. For what could be more 
beneficent, more salutary? The world is forwarded by 
having its attention fixed on the best things; and here is 
a tribunal, free from all suspicion of national and provin- 
cial partiality, putting a stamp on the best things, and 
recommending them for general honour and acceptance. 
A nation, again, is furthered by recognition of its real 
gifts and successes; it is encouraged to develop them 
further. And here is an honest verdict, telling us which 



4 WORDSWORTH 

of our supposed successes are really, in the judgment of 
the great impartial world, and not in our own private 
judgment only, successes, and which are not. 

It is so easy to feel pride and satisfaction in one's own 
things, so hard to make sure that one is right in feeling 
it! We have a great empire. But so had Nebuchad- 
nezzar.** We extol the " unrivalled happiness " of our 
national civilisation. But then comes a candid friend, 
and remarks that our upper class is materialised, our 
middle class vulgarized, and our lower class brutalised. 
We are proud of our painting, our music. But we find 
that in the judgment of other people our painting is 
questionable, and our music non-existent. We are proud 
of our men of science. And here it turns out that the 
world is with us; we find that in the judgment of other 
people, too, Newton ' among the dead, and Mr. Darwin " 
among the living, hold as high a place as they hold in 
our national opinion. 

Finally, we are proud of our poets and poetry. Now 
poetry is nothing less than the most perfect speech of 
man, that in which he comes nearest to being able to 
utter the truth. It is no small thing, therefore, to 
succeed eminently in poetry. And so much is required 
for duly estimating success here, that about poetry it is 
perhaps hardest to arrive at a sure general verdict, and 
takes longest. Meanwhile, our own conviction of the 
superiority of our national poets is not decisive, is almost 
certain to be mingled, as we see constantly in English 
eulogy of Shakspeare, with much of provincial infatua- 
tion. And we know what was the opinion current 
amongst our neighbours the French, people of taste, acute- 
ness, and quick literary tact, not a hundred years ago, 
about our great poets. The old Bwgraphie Universelle 
notices the pretension of the English to a place for their 
poets among the chief poets of the world, and says that 
this is a pretension which to no one but an Englishman 
can ever seem admissible. And the scornful, disparaging 
things said by foreigners about Shakspeare and Milton, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 5 

and about our national over-estimate of them, have been 
often quoted, and will be in everyone's remembrance. 

A great change has taken place, and Shakspeare is 
now generally recognised, even in France, as one of the 
greatest of poets. Yes, some anti-Gallican ® cynic will 
say, the French rank him with Corneille " and with Victor 
Hugo.^^ But let me have the pleasure of quoting a 
sentence about Shakspeare, which I met with by accident 
not long ago in the Correspondant, a French review 
which not a dozen English people, I suppose, look at. 
The writer is praising Shakspeare's prose. With Shak- 
speare, he says, " prose comes in whenever the subject, 
being more familiar, is unsuited to the majestic English 
iambic." And he goes on : " Shakspeare is the king of 
poetic rhythm and style, as well as the king of the realm 
of thought; along with his dazzling prose, Shakspeare 
has succeeded in giving us the most varied, the most 
harmonious verse which has ever sounded upon the 
human ear since the verse of the Greeks." M. Henry 
Cochin, the writer of this sentence, deserves our gratitude 
for it; it would not be easy to praise Shakspeare, in a 
single sentence, more justly. And when a foreigner 
and a Frenchman writes thus of Shakspeare, and when 
Goethe says of Milton, in whom there was so much to 
repel Goethe rather than to attract him, that " nothing 
has been ever done so entirely in the sense of the Greeks 
as Samson Agonistes," *" and that " Milton is in very truth 
a poet whom we must treat with all reverence," then we 
understand what constitutes a European recognition of 
poets and poetry as contradistinguished from a merely 
national recognition, and that in favour both of Milton 
and of Shakspeare the judgment of the high court of 
appeal has finally gone. 

I come back to M. Kenan's praise of glory, from which 
I started. Yes, real glory is a most serious thing, glory 
authenticated by the Amphictyonic Court "of final appeal, 
definitive glory. And even for poets and poetry, long 
and difficult as may be the process of arriving at the right 



6 WORDSWORTH 

award, the right award comes at last, the definitive glory 
rests where it is deserved. Every establishment of such 
a real glory is good and wholesome for mankind at large, 
good and wholesome for the nation which produced the 
poet crowned with it. To the poet himself it can seldom 
do harm; for he, poor man, is in his grave, probably, 
long before his glory crowns him. 

Wordsworth, has been in his grave for some thirty 
years, and certainly his lovers and admirers cannot flatter 
themselves that this great and steady light of glory as yet 
shines over him. He is not fully recognised at home; 
he is not recognised at all abroad. Yet I firmly believe 
that the poetical performance of Wordsworth is, after 
that of Shakspeare and Milton, of which all the world 
now recognises the worth, undoubtedly the most consid- 
erable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the 
present time. Chaucer is anterior ; and on other grounds, 
too, he cannot well be brought into the comparison. 
But taking the roll of our chief poetical names, besides 
Shakspeare and Milton, from the age of Elizabeth down- 
wards, and going through it, — Spenser, Dryden, Pope, 
Gray, Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Camp- 
bell, Moore, Byron, Shelley, Keats (I mention those only 
who are dead), — I think it certain that Wordsworth's 
name deserves to stand, and will finally stand, above 
them all. Several of the poets named have gifts and 
excellences which Wordsworth has not. But taking the 
performance of each as a whole, I say that Wordsworth 
seems to me to have left a body of poetical work superior 
in power, in interest, in the qualities which give endur- 
ing freshness, to that which any one of the others has 
left. 

But this is not enough to say. I think it certain, fur- 
ther, that if we take the chief poetical names of the Con- 
tinent since the death of Moliere, and, omitting Goethe, 
confront the remaining names with that of Wordsworth, 
the result is the same. Let us take Klopstock, Lessing, 
Schiller, Uhland', Riickert, and Heine for Germany; 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 7 

Filicaia, Alfieri, Manzoni, and Leopardi for Italy; Racine, 
Boileau, Voltaire, Andre Chenier, Beranger, Lamartine, 
Musset, M. Victor Hugo (he has been so long celebrated 
that although he still lives I may be permitted to name 
him) for France. Several of these, again, have evidently 
gifts and excellences to which Wordsworth can make no 
pretension. But in real poetical achievement it seems to 
me indubitable that to Wordsworth, here again, belongs 
the palm. It seems to me that Wordsworth has left be- 
hind him a body of poetical work which wears, and 
will wear, better on the whole than the performance of 
any one of these personages, so far more brilliant and 
celebrated, most of them, than the homely poet of 
Rydal. Wordsworth's performance in poetry is on the 
whole, in power, in interest, in the qualities which give 
enduring freshness, superior to theirs. 

This is a high claim to make for Wordsworth. But 
if it is a just claim, if Wordsworth's place among the 
poets who have appeared in the last two or three 
centuries is after Shakspeare. Moliere, Milton, Goethe, 
indeed, but before all the rest, then in time Wordsworth 
will have his due. We shall recognise him in his place, 
as we recognise Shakspeare and Milton ; and not only 
we ourselves shall recognise him, but he will be recog- 
nised by Europe also. Meanwhile, those who recognise 
him already may do well, perhaps, to ask themselves 
whether there are not in the case of Wordsworth certain 
special obstacles which hinder or delay his due recogni- 
tion by others, and whether these obstacles are not in 
some measure removable. 

The Excursion and the Prelude, his poems of greatest 
bulk, are by no means Wordsworth's best work. His 
best work is in his shorter pieces, and many indeed are 
there of these which are of first-rate excellence. But in 
his seven volumes the pieces of high merit are mingled 
with a mass of pieces very inferior to them; so inferior 
to them that it seems wonderful how the same poet 
should have produced both. Shakspeare frequently ha^ 



8 WORDSWORTH 

lines and passages in a strain quite false, and which are 
entirely unworthy of him. But one can imagine his 
smiling if one could meet him in the Elysian Fields and 
tell him so; smiling and replying that he knew it perfectly 
well himself, and what did it matter? But with Words- 
worth the case is different. Work altogether inferior, 
work quite uninspired, flat and dull, is produced by him 
with evident unconsciousness of its defects, and he pre- 
sents it to us with the same faith and seriousness as his 
best work. Now a drama or an epic fill the mind, and one 
does not look beyond them; but in a collection of short 
pieces the impression made by one piece requires to be 
continued and sustained by the piece following. In 
reading Wordsworth the impression made by one of his 
fine pieces is too often dulled and spoiled by a very infe- 
rior piece coming after it. 

Wordsworth composed verses during a space of some 
sixty years; and it is no exaggeration to say that within 
one single decade of those years, between 1798 and 1808, 
almost all his really first-rate work was produced. A 
mass of inferior work remains, work done before and 
after this golden prime, imbedding the first-rate work 
and clogging it, obstructing our approach to it, chilling, 
not un frequently, the high-wrought mood with which we 
leave it. To be recognised far and wide as a great poet, 
to be possible and receivable as a classic, Wordsworth 
needs to be relieved of a great deal of the poetical bag- 
gage which now encumbers him. To administer this re- 
lief is indispensable, unless he is to continue to be a poet 
for the few only, a poet valued far below his real worth 
by the world. 

There is another thing. Wordsworth classified his 
poems not according to any commonly received plan of 
arrangement, but according to a scheme of mental 
physiology.** He has poems of the fancy, poems of the 
imagination, poems of sentiment and reflexion, and so 
on. His categories are ingenious but far-fetched, and 
the result of his employment of them is unsatisfactory. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 9 

Poems are separated one from another which possess a 
kinship of subject or of treatment far more vital and 
deep than the supposed unity of mental origin which was 
Wordsworth's reason for joining them with others. 

The tact of the Greeks in matters of this kind was in- 
fallible. We may rely upon it that we shall not improve 
upon the classification adopted by the Greeks, for kinds of 
poetry; that their categories of epic, dramatic, lyric, and 
so forth, have a natural propriety, and should be adhered 
to. It may sometimes seem doubtful to which of two 
categories a poem belongs; whether this or that poem is 
to be called, for instance, narrative or lyric, lyric or 
elegiac. But there is to be found in every good poem a 
strain, a predominant note, which determines the poem 
as belonging to one of these kinds rather than the other; 
and here, is the best proof of the value of the classifica- 
tion, and of the advantage of adhering to it. Words- 
worth's poems will never produce their due effect until 
they are freed from their present artificial arrangement, 
and grouped more naturally. 

Disengaged from the quantity of inferior work which 
now obscures them, the best poems of Wordsworth, I 
hear many people say, would indeed stand out in great 
beauty, but they would prove to be very few in number, 
scarcely more than half-a-dozen. I maintain, on the 
other hand, that what strikes me with admiration, what 
establishes in my opinion Wordsworth's superiority, is 
the great and ample body of powerful work which 
remains to him, even after all his inferior work has been 
cleared away. He gives us so much to rest upon, so 
much which communicates his spirit and engages ours ! 

This is of very great importance. If it were a com- 
parison of single pieces, or of three or four pieces, by each 
poet, I do not say that Wordsworth would stand deci- 
sively above Gray, or Burns, or Coleridge, or Keats, or 
Manzoni, or Heine. It is in his ampler body of powerful 
work that I find his superiority. His good work itself, 
his work which counts, is not all of it, of course, of equal 



10 WORDSWORTH 

value. Some kinds of poetry are in themselves lower 
kinds than others. The ballad kind is a lower kind; the 
didactic kind, still more, is a lower kind. Poetry of this 
latter sort, counts, too, sometimes, by its biographical 
interest partly, not by its poetical interest pure and sim- 
ple ; but then this can only be when the poet producing it 
has the power and importance of Wordsworth, a power 
and importance which he assuredly did not establish by 
such didactic poetry alone. Altogether, it is, I say, by 
the great body of powerful and significant work which 
remains to him, after every reduction and deduction has 
been made, that Wordsworth's superiority is proved. 

To exhibit this body of Wordsworth's best work, to 
clear away obstructions from around it, and to let it 
speak for itself, is what every lover of Wordsworth 
should desire. Until this has been done, Wordsworth, 
whom we, to whom he is dear, all of us know and feel to be 
so great a poet, has not had a fair chance before the 
world. When once it has been done, he will make his way 
best not by our advocacy of him, but by his own worth 
and power. We may safely leave him to make his way 
thus, we who believe that a superior worth and power in 
poetry finds in mankind a sense responsive to it and 
disposed at last to recognise it. Yet at the outset, before 
he has been duly known and recognised, we may do 
Wordsworth a service, perhaps, by indicating in what his 
superior power and worth will be found to consist, and 
in what it will not. 

Long ago, in speaking of Homer, I said that the noble 
and profound application of ideas to life is the most 
essential part of poetic greatness.*" I said that a great 
poet receives his distinctive character of superiority from 
his application, under the conditions immutably fixed by 
the laws of poetic beauty and poetic truth, from his ap- 
plication, I say, to his subject, whatever it may be, of 
the ideas 

" On man, on nature, and on human life," *• 



MATTHEW ARNOLD ii 

which he has acquired for himself. The line quoted is 
Wordsworth's own; and his superiority arises from his 
powerful use, in his best pieces, his powerful application 
to his subject, of ideas "on man, on nature, and on 
human life." 

Voltaire,^^ with his signal acuteness, most truly re- 
marked that " no nation has treated in poetry moral 
ideas with more energy and depth than the English 
nation." And he adds : " There, it seems to me, is the 
great merit of the English poets." Voltaire does not 
mean, by " treating in poetry moral ideas," the compos- 
ing moral and didactic poems; — that brings us but a very 
little way in poetry. He means just the same thing as 
was meant when I spoke above "of the noble and pro- 
found application of ideas to life"; and he means the 
application of these ideas under the conditions fixed for 
us by the laws of poetic beauty and poetic truth. If it 
is said that to call these ideas moral ideas is to introduce 
a strong and injurious limitation, I answer that it is to do 
nothing of the kind, because moral ideas are really so 
main a part of human life. The question, how to live, 
is itself a moral idea; and it is the question which most 
interests every man, and with which, in some way or 
other, he is perpetually occupied. A large sense is of 
course to be given to the term moral. Whatever bears 
upon the question, " how to live," comes under it. 

" Nor love thy life, nor hate ; but, what thou liv'st. 
Live well ; how long or short, permit to heaven." " 

In those fine lines, Milton utters, as every one at once 
perceives, a moral idea. Yes, but so too, when Keats 
consoles the forward-bending lover on the Grecian 
Urn, the lover arrested and presented in immortal re- 
lief by the sculptor's hand before he can kiss, with the 
line, 

" For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair " — ^** 



12 WORDSWORTH 

he utters a moral idea. When Shakspeare says, that 

" We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep," ^^ 

he utters a moral idea. 

Voltaire was right in thinking that the energetic and 
profound treatment of moral ideas, in this large sense, is 
what distinguishes the English poetry. He sincerely 
meant praise, not dispraise or hint of limitation; and 
they err who suppose that poetic limitation is a necessary 
consequence of the fact, the fact being granted as Voltaire 
states it. If what distinguishes the greatest poets is their 
powerful and profound application of ideas to life, which 
surely no good critic will deny, then to prefix to the term 
ideas here the term moral makes hardly any difference, 
because human life itself is in so preponderating a degree 
moral. 

It is important, therefore, to hold fast to this: that 
poetry is at bottom a criticism of life; that the greatness 
of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of 
ideas to life, — to the question: How to live. Morals are 
often treated in a narrow and false fashion, they are 
bound up with systems of thought and belief which 
have had their day, they are fallen into the hands of 
pedants and professional dealers, they grow tiresome to 
some of us. We find attraction, at times, even in a 
poetry of revolt against them; in a poetry which might 
take for its motto Omar Kheyam's "" words: "Let us 
make up in the tavern for the time which we have wasted 
in the mosque." Or we find attractions in a poetry 
indifferent to them, in a poetry where the contents may 
be what they will, but where the form is studied and 
exquisite. We delude ourselves in either case; and the 
best cure for our delusion is to let our minds rest upon 
that great and inexhaustible word life, until we learn to 
enter into its meaning. A poetry of revolt against moral 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 13 

ideas is a poetry of revolt against life; a poetry of in- 
difference towards moral ideas is a poetry of indifference 
towards life. ^ 

Epictetus " had a happy figure for things like the play 
of the senses, or literary form and finish, or argumen- 
tative ingenuity, in comparison with " the best and 
master thing " for us, as he called it, the concern, how to 
live. Some people were afraid of them, he said, or they 
disliked and undervalued them. Such people were 
wrong; they were unthankful or cowardly. But the 
things might also be over-prized, and treated as final 
when they are not. They bear to life the relation which 
inns bear to home. " As if a man, journeying home, 
and finding a nice inn on the road, and liking it, were 
to stay for ever at the inn ! Man, thou hast forgotten 
thine object; thy journey was not to this, but through 
this. ' But this inn is taking.* And how many other 
inns, too, are taking, and how many fields and meadows! 
but as places of passage merely. You have an object, 
which is this: to get home, to do your duty to your 
family, friends, and fellow-countrymen, to attain inward 
freedom, serenity, happiness, contentment. Style takes 
your fancy, arguing takes your fancy, and you forget your 
home and want to make your abode with them and to 
stay with them, on the plea that they are taking. Who 
denies that they are taking? but as places of passage, as 
inns. And when I say this, you suppose me to be 
attacking the care for style, the care for argument. I 
am not; T attack the resting in them, the not looking to 
the end which is beyond them." 

Now, when we come across a poet like Theophile 
Gautier,'* we have a poet who has taken up his abode at 
an inn, and never got farther. There may be induce- 
ments to this or that one of us, at this or that moment, 
to find delight in him, to cleave to him ; but after all, 
we do not change the truth about him, — we only stay 
ourselves in his inn along with him. And when we 
come across a poet like Wordsworth, who sings, 



14 WORDSWORTH 

" Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love and hope. 
And melancholy fear subdued by faith, 
Of blessed consolations in distress, 
Of moral strength and intellectual power, 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread " — ** 

then we have a poet intent on " the best and master 
thing," and who prosecutes his journey home. We say, 
for brevity's sake, that he deals with life, because he 
deals with that in which life really consists. This is 
what Voltaire means to praise in the English poets, — 
this dealing with what is really life. But always it is 
the mark of the greatest poets that they deal with it; 
and to say that the English poets are remarkable for 
dealing with it, is only another way of saying, what is 
true, that in poetry the English genius has especially 
shown its power. 

Wordsworth deals with it, and his greatness lies in 
his dealing with it so powerfully. I have named a 
number of celebrated poets above all of whom he, in my 
opinion, deserves to be placed. He is to be placed above 
poets like Voltaire, Dryden, Pope, Lessing, Schiller, 
because these famous personages, with a thousand gifts 
and merits, never, or scarcely ever, attain the distinctive 
accent and utterance of the high and genuine poets — 

" Quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti," '" 

at all. Burns, Keats, Heine, not to speak of others in 
our list, have this accent; — who can doubt it? And at 
the same time they have treasures of humour, felicity, 
passion, for which in Wordsworth we shall look in vain. 
Where, then, is Wordsworth's superiority? It is here; 
he deals with more of life than they do; he deals with 
life, as a whole, more powerfully. 

No Wordsworthian will doubt this. Nay, the fervent 
Wordsworthian will add, as Mr. Leslie Stephen " does, 
that Wordsworth's poetry is precious because his philoso- 
phy is sound ; that his " ethical system is as distinctive and 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 1$ 

capable of exposition as Bishop Butler's " ; " that his 
poetry is informed by ideas which " fall spontaneously 
into a scientific system of thought." But we must be on 
our guard against the Wordsworthians, if we want to 
secure for Wordsworth his due rank as a poet. The 
Wordsworthians are apt to praise him for the wrong 
things, and to lay far too much stress upon what they 
call his philosophy. His poetry is the reality, his philos- 
ophy, — so far, at least, as it may put on the form and 
habit of " a scientific system of thought," and the more 
that it puts them on, — is the illusion. Perhaps we shall 
one day learn to make this proposition general, and to 
say: Poetry is the reality, philosophy the illusion. But 
in Wordsworth's case, at any rate, we cannot do him 
justice until we dismiss his formal philosophy. 

The Excursion abounds with philosophy, and there- 
fore the Excursion is to the Wordsworthian what it never 
can be to the distinterested lover of poetry, — a satisfactory 
work. " Duty exists," says Wordsworth, in the Excur- 
sion; and then he proceeds thus: — 

..." Immutably survive, 

For our support, the measures and the forms, 

Which an abstract Intelligence supplies, 

Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not." " 

And the Wordsworthian is delighted, and thinks that 
here is a sweet union of philosophy and poetry. But the 
disinterested lover of poetry will feel that the lines carry 
us really not a step farther than the proposition which 
they would interpret; that they are a tissue of elevated 
but abstract verbiage, alien to the very nature of poetry. 
Or let us come direct to the centre of Wordsworth's 
philosophy, as " an ethical system, as distinctive and 
capable of systematical exposition as Bishop Butler's": — 

..." One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists, one only ; — an assured belief 



i6 WORDSWORTH 

That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good." *' 

That is doctrine such as we hear in church too, religious 
and philosophic doctrine; and the attached Words- 
worthian loves passages of such doctrine, and brings them 
forward in proof of his poet's excellence. But however 
true the doctrine may be, it has, as here presented, none 
of the characters of poetic truth, the kind of truth which 
we require from a poet, and in which Wordsworth is 
really strong. 

Even the " intimations " of the famous Ode,'" those 
corner-stones of the supposed philosophic system of 
Wordsworth, — the idea of the high instincts and affec- 
tions coming out in childhood, testifying of a divine home 
recently left, and fading away as our life proceeds, — this 
idea, of undeniable beauty as a play of fancy, has itself 
not the character of poetic truth of the best kind; it has 
no real solidity. The instinct of delight in Nature and 
her beauty had no doubt extraordinary strength in 
Wordsworth himself as a child. But to say that uni- 
versally this instinct is mighty in childhood, and tends to 
die away afterwards, is to say what is extremely doubtful. 
In many people, perhaps with the majority of educated 
persons, the love of nature is nearly imperceptible at ten 
years old, but strong and operative at thirty. In general 
we may say of these high instincts of early childhood, the 
base of the alleged systematic philosophy of Wordsworth, 
what Thucydides " says of the early achievements of the 
Greek race : — " It is impossible to speak with certainty 
of what is so remote ; but from all that we can really 
investigate, I should say that they were no very great 
things." 

Finally the " scientific system of thought " in Words- 
worth gives us at last such poetry as this, which the 
devout Wordsworthian accepts: — 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 17 

" O for the coming of that glorious time 
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
And best protection, this Imperial Realm, 
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
An obligation, on her part, to teach 
Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 
Binding herself by statute to secure. 
For all the children whom her soil maintains, 
The rudiments of letters, and inform 
The mind with moral and religious truth." " 

Wordsworth calls Voltaire dull, and surely the production 
of these un-Voltairian lines must have been imposed on 
him as a judgment ! One can hear them being quoted 
at a Social Science Congress; one can call up the whole 
scene. A great room in one of our dismal provincial 
towns; dusty air and jaded afternoon daylight; benches 
full of men with bald heads and women in spectacles; 
an orator lifting up his face from a manuscript written 
within and without to declaim these lines of Wordsworth; 
and in the soul of any poor child of nature who may have 
wandered in thither, an unutterable sense of lamentation, 
and mourning, and woe ! 

" But turn we," as Wordsworth says, " from these 
bold, bad men," the haunters of Social Science Con- 
gresses. And let us be on our guard, too, against the 
exhibitors and extollers of a " scientific system of 
thought " in Wordsworth's poetry. The poetry will never 
be seen aright while they thus exhibit it. The cause of its 
greatness is simple, and may be told quite simply. Words- 
worth's poetry is great because of the extraordinary power 
with which Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in 
nature, the joy offered to us in the simple primary affec- 
tions and duties; and because of the extraordinary power 
with which, in case after case, he shows us this joy, and 
renders it so as to make us share it. 

The source of joy from which he thus draws is the 
truest and most unfailing source of joy accessible to man. 
It is also accessible universally. Wordsworth brings us 



i8 WORDSWORTH 

word, therefore, according to his own strong and charac- 
teristic line, he brings us word 

" Of joy in widest commonalty spread." *• 

Here is an immense advantage for a poet. Wordsworth 
tells of what all seek, and tells of it at its truest and 
best source, and yet a source where all may go and draw 
for it. 

Nevertheless, we are not to suppose that everything is 
precious which Wordsworth, standing even at this peren- 
nial and beautiful source, may give us. Wordsworthians 
are apt to talk as if it must be. They will speak with 
the same reverence of The Sailor's Mother** for example, 
as of Lucy Gray.*^ They do their master harm by such 
lack of discrimination. Lucy Gray is a beautiful success; 
The Sailor's Mother is a failure. To give aright what he 
wishes to give, to interpret and render successfully, is not 
always within Wordsworth's own command. It is within 
no poet's command; here is the part of the Muse, the 
inspiration, the God, the " not ourselves." In Words- 
worth's case, the accident, for so it may almost be called, 
of inspiration, is of peculiar importance. No poet, 
perhaps, is so evidently filled with a new and sacred 
energy when the inspiration is upon him; no poet, when 
it fails him, is so left " weak as is a breaking wave." I 
remember hearing him say that " Goethe's poetry was not 
inevitable enough." The remark is striking and true; 
no line in Goethe, as Goethe said himself, but its maker 
knew well how it came there. Wordsworth is right, 
Goethe's poetry is not inevitable; not inevitable enough. 
But Wordsworth's poetry, when he is at his best, is 
inevitable, as inevitable as Nature herself. It might 
seem that Nature not only gave him the matter for his 
poem, but wrote his poem for him. He has no style. 
He was too conversant with Milton not to catch at times 
his master's manner, and he has fine Miltonic lines; 
but he has no assured poetic style of his own, like 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 19 

Milton. When he seeks to have a style he falls into 
ponderosity and pomposity. In the Excursion we have 
his style, as an artistic product of his ow^n creation; 
and although Jeffrey " completely failed to recognise 
Wordsworth's real greatness, he was yet not wrong in 
saying of the Excursion, as a work of poetic style: 
" This will never do." And yet magical as is that 
power, which Wordsworth has not, of assured and pos- 
sessed poetic style, he has something which is an 
equivalent for it. 

Every one who has any sense for these things feels the 
subtle turn, the heightening, which is given to a poet's 
v^Tse by his genius for style. We can feel it in the 

" After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well " — '^ 
of Shakspeare; in the 

..." though fall'n on evil days, 

On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues " — " 

of Milton. It is the incomparable charm of Milton*s 
power of poetic style which gives such worth to Paradise 
Regained, and makes a great poem of a work in which 
Milton's imagination does not soar high. Wordsworth 
has in constant possession, and at command, no style of 
this kind ; but he had too poetic a nature, and had read 
the great poets too well, not to catch, as I have already 
remarked, something of it occasionally. We find it not 
only in his Miltonic lines; we find it in such a phrase as 
this, where the manner is his own, not Milton's — 

..." the fierce confederate storm 
Of sorrow barricadoed evermore 
Within the walls of cities ; " *" 

although even here, perhaps, the power of style, which 
is undeniable, is more properly that of eloquent prose 
than the subtle heightening and change wrought by 



20 WORDSWORTH 

genuine poetic style. It is style, again, and the eleva- 
tion given by style, which chiefly makes the effectiveness 
of Laodamcia.*" Still the right sort of verse to choose 
from Wordsworth, if we are to seize his true and most 
characteristic form of expression, is a line like this from 
Michael : — 

" And never lifted up a single stone." " 

There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, no study of 
poetic style, strictly so called, at all; yet it is expression 
of the higliest and most truly expressive kind. 

Wordsworth owed much to Burns, and a style of perfect 
plainness, relying for effect solely on the weight and 
force of that which with entire fidelity it utters, Burns 
could show him. 

" The poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low 

And stain'd his name." *^ 

Every one will be conscious of a likeness here to Words- 
worth ; and if Wordsworth did great things with this 
nobly plain manner, we must remember, what indeed he 
himself would always have been forward to acknowledge, 
that Burns used it before him. 

Still Wordsworth's use of it has something unique and 
unmatchable. Nature herself seems, I say, to take the 
pen out of his hand, and to write for him with her own 
bare, sheer, penetrating power. This arises from two 
causes : from the profound sincereness with which Words- 
worth feels his subject, and also from the profoundly 
sincere and natural character of his subject itself. He 
can and will treat such a subject with nothing but the 
most plain, first-hand, almost austere naturalness. His 
expression may often be called bald, as, for instance, in 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 21 

the poem of Resolution and Independence; ** but it is bald 
as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness which 
is full of grandeur. 

Wherever we meet with the successful balance, in 
Wordsworth, of profound truth of subject with profound 
truth of execution, he is unique. His best poems are 
those which most perfectly exhibit this balance. I have 
a warm admiration for Laodameia and for the great Ode; 
but if I am to tell the very truth, I find Laodameia not 
wholly free from something artificial, and the great Ode 
not wholly free from something declamatory. H I had 
to pick out poems of a kind most perfectly to show 
Wordsworth's unique power, I should rather choose poems 
such as Michael, The Fountain,** The Highland Reaper,*' 
And poems with the peculiar and unique beauty which 
distinguishes these, Wordsworth produced in considerable 
number; besides very many other poems of which the 
worth, although not so rare as the worth of these, is still 
exceedingly high. 

On the whole, then, as I said at the beginning, not 
only is Wordsworth eminent by reason of the goodness 
of his best work, but he is eminent also by reason of 
the great body of good work which he has left to us. 
With the ancients I will not compare him. In many 
respects the ancients are far above us, and yet there is 
something that we demand which they can never give. 
Leaving the ancients, let us come to the poets and poetry 
of Christendom. Dante, Shakspeare, Moliere, Milton, 
Goethe, are altogether larger and more splendid lumi- 
naries in the poetical heaven than Wordsworth. But I 
know not where else, among the moderns, we are to find 
his superiors. 

To disengage the poems which show his power, and 
to present them to the English-speaking public and to 
the world, is the object of this volume.*' I by no means 
say that it contains all which in Wordsworth's poems is 
interesting. Except in the case of Margaret,*'' a story 
composed separately from the rest of the Excursion, and 



22 WORDSWORTH 

which belongs to a different part of England, I have not 
ventured on detaching portions of poems, or on giving any 
piece otherwise than as Wordsworth himself gave it. But, 
under the conditions imposed by this reserve, the volume 
contains, I think, everything, or nearly everything, which 
may best serve him with the majority of lovers of poetry, 
nothing which may disserve him. 

I have spoken lightly of Wordsworthians : and if we 
are to get Wordsworth recognised by the public and by 
the world, we must recommend him not in the spirit of a 
clique, but in the spirit of disinterested lovers of poetry. 
But I am a Wordsworthian myself. I can read with 
pleasure and edification Peter Bell,*'^ and the whole series 
of Ecclesiastical Sonnets/' and the address to Mr. Wilkin- 
son's spade,'" and even the Thanksgiving Ode; — every- 
thing of Wordsworth, I think, except Vaudracour and 
Julia" It is not for nothing that one has been brought 
up in the veneration of a man so truly worthy of homage; 
that one has seen him and heard him, lived in his neigh- 
bourhood and been familiar with his country. No Words- 
worthian has a tenderer affection for this pure and sage 
master than I, or is less really offended by his defects. 
But Wordsworth is something more than the pure and 
sage master of a small band of devoted followers, and 
we ought not to rest satisfied until he is seen to be what 
he is. He is one of the very chief glories of English 
Poetry; and by nothing is England so glorious as by her 
poetry. Let us lay aside every weight which hinders our 
getting him recognised as this, and let our one study be 
to brmg to pass, as widely as possible and as truly as 
possible, his own word concerning his poems : — " They 
will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human na- 
ture and society, and will, in their degree, be efficacious 
in making men wiser, better, and happier." 



SELECTED POEMS OF 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



SHORTER NARRATIVES AND POEMS OF 
REMINISCENCE 

WE ARE SEVEN 
A simple child, 



That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage Girl: 
She was eight years old, she said; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad: 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
— Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
"How many? Seven in all," she said. 
And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they? I pray you tell." 
She answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
My sister and my brother : 
And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 
23 



24 WOEDSWORTH 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the churchyard laid. 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little Maid replied. 

'* Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 
And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem; 
And there upon the ground I sit — 
I sit and sing to them. 

" And often after sunset, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was little Jane ; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain; 
And then she went away. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And, when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 25 

" And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in Heaven? " 
The little Maiden did reply, 
" O Master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits are in Heaven ! " 
'Twas throwing words away : for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 



ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS 

I have a boy of five years old; 
His face is fair and fresh to see; 
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
And dearly he loves me. 

One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 
Our quiet home all full in view, 
And held such intermitted talk 
As we are wont to do. 

My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 
Our pleasant home when Spring began, 
A long, long year before. 

A day it was when I could bear 
Some fond regrets to entertain; 
With so much happiness to spare, 
I could not feel a pain. 



26 WORDSWORTH 

The green earth echoed to the feet 
Of lambs that bounded through the glade, 
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
From sunshine back to shade. 

Birds warbled round me — every trace 
Of inward sadness had its charm; 
" Kilve," said I, " was a favoured place, 
And so is Liswyn farm." 

My Boy was by my side, so slim 
And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
And, as we talked, I questioned him. 
In very idleness. 

" Now tell me, had you rather be," 

I said, and took him by the arm, 

" On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, 

Or here at Liswyn farm ? " 

In careless mood he looked at me. 
While still I held him by the arm. 
And said, " At Kilve I'd rather be 
Than here at Liswyn farm." 

" Now, little Edward, say why so ; 
My little Edward, tell me why." — 
" I cannot tell, I do not know." — 
" Why, this is strange," said I ; 

" For, here are woods, and green hills warm 
There surely must some reason be 
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
For Kilve by the green sea." 

At this, my Boy hung down his head. 
He blushed with shame, nor made reply; 
And five times to the child I said, 
" Why, Edward, tell me why ? " 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 2y 

His head he raised — there was in sight, 
It caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
A broad and gilded Vane. 

Then did the Boy his tongue unlock ; 
And thus to me he made reply : 
" At Kilve there was no weather-cock, 
And that's the reason why." 

O dearest, dearest Boy ! my heart 
For better lore would seldom yearn, 
Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of what from thee I learn. 



SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, 
An old man dwells, a little man, — 
'Tis said he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry; 
And still the center of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee. 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

The halloo of Simon Lee, 

In those proud days he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun. 
Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
And often, ere the chase was done 
He reel'd and was stone-blind. 



28 WORDSWORTH 

And still there's something in the world 
At which his heart rejoices; 
For when the chiming homids are out, 
He dearly loves their voices. 

But oh the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! 

Old Simon to the world is left 

In liveried poverty: — 

His master's dead, and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick, 
His body, dwindled and awry, 
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
His legs are thin and dry. 
One prop he has, and only one, — 
His wife, an aged woman. 
Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
Upon the village common. 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay. 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Inclosed when he was stronger; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no longer? 

Oft, working by her husband's side, 

Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 

For she, with scanty cause for pride, 

Is stouter of the two. 

And, though you with your utmost skill 

From labor could not wean them, 

Tis little, very little, all 

That they can do between them. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 29 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell, 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle Reader, I perceive 

How patiently you've waited, 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 
Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

gentle Reader ! you would find 
A tale in everything. 

What more I have to say is short, 
And you must kindly take it: 
It is no tale ; but, should you think, 
Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 

One summer day I chanced to see 
This old Man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree, 
A stump of rotten wood. 
The mattock tottered in his hand; 
So vain was his endeavor 
That at the root of the old tree 
He might have worked forever. 

" You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
And at the word right gladly he 
Received my proffered aid. 

1 struck, and with a single blow 
The tangled root I severed, 

At which the poor old man so long 
And vainly had endeavored. 

The tears into his eyes were brought. 
And thanks and praises seemed to run 
So fast out of his heart, I thought 
They never would have done. 



30 WORDSWORTH 

— IVe heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
With coldness still returning; 
Alas! the gratitude of men 
Hath oftener left me mourning. 



LUCY GRAY 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play. 
The hare upon the green; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; • 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon ! " 

At this the father raised his hook. 
And snapped a fagot band; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 31 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 
She wandered up and down; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor; 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood 

A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
" In heaven we all shall meet ! " 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone wall : 

And then an open field they crossed: 
The marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came : 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none ! 



32 WORDSWORTH 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 



NUTTING 
■It seems a day 



(I speak of one from many singled out) 

One of those heavenly days which cannot die; 

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 

I left our Cottage-threshold, sallying forth 

With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 

A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps 

Toward the distant woods, a Figure quaint. 

Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 

Which for that service had been husbanded, 

By exhortation of my frugal Dame; 

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth. 

More ragged than need was ! Among the woods, 

And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way 

Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 

Unvisited, where not a broken bough 

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 

Of devastation, but the hazels rose 

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 

A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood. 

Breathing with such suppression of the heart 

As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint 

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 

The banquet, — or beneath the trees I sate 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 33 

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; 

A temper known to those, who, after long 

And weary expectation, have been blest 

With sudden happiness beyond all hope. — 

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 

The violets of five seasons re-appear 

And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 

For ever, — and I saw the sparkling foam. 

And with my cheek on one of those green stones 

That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees, 

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 

I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, 

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things. 

Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 

And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 

And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 

Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 

Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 

Their quiet being : and, unless I now 

Confound my present feelings with the past, 

Even then, when from the bower I turned away 

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 

The silent trees and the intruding sky. — 

Then, dearest Maiden ! move along these shades 

In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand 

Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 



34 WORDSWORTH 



MATTHEW 

In the School of Hawkshcad is a Tablet, on which are in- 
scribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several Persons who 
have been Schoolmasters there since the Foundation of the 
, School, with the Time at which they entered upon and 
quitted their Office. Opposite to one of those Names the 
Author wrote the following Lines. 

li Nature, for a favourite Child, 
In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
That every hour thy heart runs wild. 
Yet never once doth go astray, 

Read o'er these lines; and then review 
This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
In such diversity of hue 
Its history of two hundred years. 

— When through this little wreck of fame, 
Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 
Has travelled down to Matthew's name. 
Pause with no common sympathy. 

And, if a sleeping tear should wake. 
Then be it neither checked nor stayed: 
For Matthew a request I make 
Which for himself he had not made. 

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
Is silent as a standing pool ; 
Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
And murmur of the village school. 

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
Of one tired out with fun and madness; 
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 35 

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went round, 
It seemed as if he drank it up — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 

— Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 
Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
That these two words of glittering gold 
Are all that must remain of thee? 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

We walked along, whih bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun; 
And Matthew stopped, he looked and said, 
" The will of God be done ! " 

A village Schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering gray; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass 
And by the steaming rills. 
We travelled merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 

" Our work," said I, " was well begun ; 
Then, from thy breast what thought, 
Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
So sad a sigh has brought ? " 

A second time did Matthew stop; 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top. 
To me he made reply : 



36 WORDSWORTH 

" Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

" And just above yon slope of corn 
Such colours, and no other, 
Were in the sky, that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 

" With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 
And, coming to the church, stopped short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

" Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale; 
And then she sang; — she would have been 
A very nightingale. 

" Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet I loved her more. 
For so it seemed, than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

" And, turning from her grave, I met, 
Beside the churchyard yew, 
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 

" A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white: 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight ! 

" No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
She seemed as happy as a wav(e 
That dances on the se^. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 37 

"There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine; 
I looked at her, and looked again: 
— And did not wish her mine." 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
Methinks, I see him stand, 
As at that moment, with a bough 
Of wilding in his hand. 



THE FOUNTAIN 

A CONVERSATION 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was youngs, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
Beside a mossy seat; 
And from the turf a fountain broke. 
And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match 
This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song, or catch 
That suits a summer's noon; 

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade, 
That half -mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 
And thus the dear old Man replied, 
The grey-haired man of glee: 



38 WORDSWORTH 

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
How merrily it goes ! 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
My heart is idly stirred, 
For the same sound is in my ears 
Which in those days I heard. 

"Thus fares it still in our decay: 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 
Than what it leaves behind. 

" The blackbird amid leafy trees. 
The lark above the hill, 
Let loose their carols when they please. 
Are quiet when they will. 

" With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free: 

" But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more, 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

"If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindred laid in earth, 
The household hearts that were his own. 
It is the man of mirth. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 39 

" My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
My life has been approved, 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs 
The man who thus complains ! 
I live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains, 

" And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I'll be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
And through the wood we went ; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock. 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 



TO JOANNA* 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 

The time of early youth; and there you learned, 

From years of quiet industry, to love 

The living beings by your own fireside. 

With such a strong devotion, that your heart 

Is slow toward the sympathies of them 

Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 

And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. 

Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind. 

Dwelling retired in our simplicity 



40 WORDSWORTH 

Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 
Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
So distant from us now for two long years, 
That you will gladly listen to discourse. 
However trivial, if you thence are taught 
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 
Familiarly of you and of old times. 

While I was seated, now ^ome ten days past. 
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple tower, 
The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked, 
" How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
And when will she return to us ? " he paused : 
And, after short exchange of village news, 
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, 
Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
Of formidable size had chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock. 
Above the Rotha, by the forest side. 
— Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
Engendered betwixt malice and true love, 
I was not loth to be so catechised. 
And this was my reply: — "As it befel. 
One summer morning we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
— Twas that delightful season when the broom. 
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep. 
Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
And when we came in front of that tall rock 
Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short, 
And traced the lofty barrier with my eye 
From base to summit ; such delight I found 
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, 
That intermixture of delicious hues. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 41 

Along so vast a surface, all at once, 

In one impression, by connecting force 

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 

— When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 

The Rock, like something starting from a sleep. 

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again : 

That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag 

Was ready with her cavern ; Hammer-Scar, 

And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth 

A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard 

And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone: 

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 

Carried the Lady's voice,— old Skiddaw blew 

His speaking trumpet; — back out of the clouds 

Of Glaramara southward came the voice; 

And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 

— Now whether (said I to our cordial friend, 

Who in the hey-day of astonishment 

Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 

A work accomplished by the brotherhood 

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 

With dreams and visionary impulses 

To me alone imparted, sure I am 

That there was a loud uproar in the hills : 

And, while we both were listening, to my side 

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 

To shelter from some object of her fear. 

— And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 

Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 

And silent morning, I sat down, and there. 

In memory of affections old and true, 

I chiselled out in those rude characters 

Joanna's name upon the living stone. 

And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 

Have called the lovely rock, 'Joanna's Rock.'" 



42 WORDSWORTH 



THE FIR-GROVE PATH 

When, to the attractions of the busy world 

Preferring studious leisure, 1 had chosen 

A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 

Sharp season followed of continual storm 

In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 

Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged 

With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill 

At a short distance from my cottage, stands 

A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 

To hasten; for I found, beneath the roof 

Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 

Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 

Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 

And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, 

The Redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I loth 

To sympathise with vulgar coppice Birds 

That, for protection from the nipping blast, 

Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew 

Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork 

Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; 

A last year's nest, conspicuously built 

At such small elevation from the ground 

As gave sure sign that they who in that house 

Of nature and of love had made their home 

Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 

Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, 

A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, 

Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, 

From the remotest outskirts of the grove, — 

Some nook where they had made their final stand. 

Huddling together from two fears — the fear 

Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour 

Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees 

Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven 

In such perplexed and intricate array. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 43 

That vainly did I seek, between their stems, 
A length of open space, where to and fro 
My feet might move without concern or care; 
And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed, 
I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and prized, 
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. 



The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned 
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts 
Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, 
By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
To this forsaken covert, there I found 
A hoary path-way traced between the trees. 
And winding on with such an easy line 
Along a natural opening, that I stood 
Much wondering how I could have sought in vain 
For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
For an allotted interval of ease, 
Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come 
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant;* 
And with the sight of this same path — begun, 
Begun and ended, in the shady grove. 
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 
That, to this opportune recess allured. 
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track 
By pacing here, unwearied and alone. 
In that habitual restlessness of foot 
With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er 
His short domain upon the vessel's deck. 
While she is travelling through the dreary sea. 

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, 
And taken thy first leave of those green hills 
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Youth, 
Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two. 
Conversing not, knew little in what mould 



44 WORDSWORTH 

Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length. 

When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 

Between us there was little other bond 

Than common feelings of fraternal love. 

But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried 

Undying recollections ; Nature there 

Was with thee ; she, who loved us both, she still 

Was with thee ; and even so didst thou become 

A silent Poet; from the solitude 

Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 

Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 

And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. 

— Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; 

Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 

Could I withhold thy honoured name, and now 

I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 

Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns 

Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong: 

And there I sit at evening, when the steep 

Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful Lake, 

And one green Island, gleam between the stems 

Of the dark firs, a visionary scene! 

And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 

Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 

Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee. 

My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 

Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, — while Thou, 

Muttering the Verses which I muttered first 

Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 

Art pacing thoughtfully the Vessel's deck 

In some far region, — here, while o'er my head, 

At every impulse of the moving breeze, 

The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, 

Alone I tread this path; — for aught I know, 

Timing my steps to thine ; and. with a store 

Of undistinguishable sympathies, 

Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 45 

When we, and others whom we love, shall meet 
A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale.* 

Note, — This wish was not granted ; the lamented Person not 
long after perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as 
Commander of the Honourable East India Company's Vessel, the 
Earl of Abergavenny, 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 

Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
Or if the grave be now thy bed. 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That I may rest; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name? 

Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child — 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed. 
And been forever more beguiled, — 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
I catch at them, and then I miss; 
Was ever darkness like to this? 

He was among the prime in worth, 

An object beauteous to behold; 

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 

If things ensued that wanted grace 

As hath been said, they were not base ; 

And never blush was on my face. 

Ah! little doth the young one dream 
When full of play and childish cares. 
What power is in his wildest scream 
Heard by his mother unawares I 



46 WORDSWORTH 

He knows it not, he cannot guess; 
Years to a mother bring distress; 
But do not make her love the less. 

Neglect me ! no, 1 suffered long 
From that ill thought; and being blind 
Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong: 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ever breathed:" and that is true; 
I've wet my path with tears like dew, 
Weeping for him when no one knew. 

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door; 
Think not of me with grief and pain: 
I now can see with better eyes; 
And worldly grandeur I despise 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan 
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den; 
Or hast been summoned to the deep 
Thou, thou, and all thy mates to keep 
An incommunicable sleep. 

I look for ghosts: but none will force 
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead; 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 47 

For surely then I should have sight 
Of him 1 wait for day and night 
With love and longings infinite. 

My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to vshake me as they pass: 
I question things, and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind; 
And all the world appears unkind. 

Beyond participation lie 

My troubles, and beyond relief: 

H any chance to heave a sigh, 

They pity me, and not my grief. 

Then come to me, my Son, or send 

Some tidings that my woes may end ! 

I have no other earthly friend. 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 

(the leecft-catiierer) 

There was a roaring in the wind all night; 

The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 

But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 

The birds are singing in the distant woods; 

Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; 

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; 

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 

All things that love the sun are out of doors; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops; — on the moors 
The Hare is running races in her mirth; 



48 WORDSWORTH 

And with her feet she from the plashy earth 

Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun, 

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 



I was a traveller then upon the moor ; 

I saw the Hare that raced about with joy; 

I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 

The pleasant season did my heart employ: 

My old remembrances went from me wholly; 

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy! 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low, 
To me that morning did it happen so ; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could 
name. 

I heard the Sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful Hare: 
Even such a happy Child of earth am I; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all care; 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood: 

As if all needful things would come unsought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good : 

But how can He expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 49 

I thought of Chatterton/ the marvellous Boy, 

The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; 

Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 

Following his plough, along the mountain-side : " 

By our own spirits are we deified ; 

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 

A leading from above, a something given, 

Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place, 

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 

Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 

I saw a Man before me unawares: 

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 

As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
By what means it could thither come, and whence; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense : 
Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 

Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age: 

His body was bent double, feet and head 

Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 

As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 

Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 

Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face, 
Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood: 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a Cloud the Old Man stood ; 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call ; 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 



50 WORDSWORTH 

At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond 

Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look 

Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 

As if he had been reading in a book : 

And now a stranger's privilege I took; 

And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 

"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.'* 

A gentle answer did the Old Man make. 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : 
And him with further words I thus bespake, 
" What occupation do you there pursue ? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 

But each in solemn order followed each. 

With something of a lofty utterance drest — 

Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 

Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 

Such as grave livers do in Scotland use. 

Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues. 

He told, that to these waters he had come 

To gather Leeches," being old and poor: 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 

And he had many hardships to endure ; 

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; 

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance; 

And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 

The Old Man still stood talking by my side; 

But now his voice to me was like a stream 

Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; 

And the whole Body of the Man did seem 

Like one whom I had met within a dream; 

Or like a man from some far region sent. 

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 

My former thoughts returned: J:he fear that kills; 

And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 

And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 

— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 

My question eagerly did I renew, 

" How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? " 

He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide 
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the Pools where they abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on every side ; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place. 

The Old Man's shape, and speech, all troubled me : 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 

About the weary moors continually, 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 

And soon with this he other matter blended. 

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 

But stately in the main; and when he ended, 

I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 

In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; 

I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " 



52 WORDSWORTH 

YARROW UNVISITED ' 

See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon the Banks 
of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Ham- 
ilton, beginning — 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !" — 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelled; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome Marrow" 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town, 

Who have been buying, selling, 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 

Each Maiden to her Dwelling ! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

" There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 

The Lintwhites sing in chorus; 

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 

Made blithe v/ith plough and harrow: 

Why throw away a needful day 

To go in search of Yarrow? 

*' What's Yarrow but a River bare, 
That glides the dark hills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 53 

— Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; 
My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
And looked me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Oh ! green," said I, *' are Yarrow's Holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow's flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,* 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
We'll wander Scotland thorough; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the Dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill ^iieadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go, 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown ! 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 
Ah ! why should we undo it ^ 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow. 

"If Care with freezing years should come, 
And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loth to stir from home, 
And yet be melancholy ; 

* See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 



54 WORDSWORTH 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonny Holms of Yarrow ! " 



YARROW VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER, 1814 

And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a wakinof dream? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near. 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES 55 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding : 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful wa'-ning. 



Delicious is the Lay that sings 
The haunts of happy Lovers, 
The path that leads them to the grove, 
The leafy grove that covers : 
And Pity sanctifies the verse 
That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
The unconquerable strength of love; 
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 



But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation: 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 



That Region left, the Vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature; 

And, rising from those lofty groves. 

Behold a Ruin hoary! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 

Renowned in Border story. 



S6 WORDSWORTH 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts that nestle there. 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day, 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I en wreathed my own ! 

'Twere no offence to reason ; 

The sober Hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 

A ray of Fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapours linger round the Heights, 
They melt — and soon must vanish ; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad thought, which I would banish, 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 

RUTH 

When Ruth was left half desolate, 
Her father took another mate; 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill, 
In thoughtless freedom bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw. 
And from that oaten pipe could draw 
All sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the green, 
As if she from her birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; 

Herself her own delight; 

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; 

And, passing thus the livelong day. 

She grew to woman's height. 

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore — 

A military casque he wore, 

With splendid feathers drest ; 

He brought them from the Cherokees ; 

The feathers nodded in the breeze, 

And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 
Ah no I he spake the English tongue, 
57 



58 WORDSWORTH 

And bore a soldier's name; 
And, when America was free 
From battle and from jeopardy. 
He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 
In finest tones the Youth could speak: 
— While he was yet a boy, 
The moon, the glory of the sun, 
And streams that murmur as they run. 
Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play, 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought 
And with him many tales he brought 
Of pleasure and of fear; 
Such tales as told to any maid 
By such a youth, in the green shade, 
Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls — a happy rout! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 

Their pleasant Indian town. 

To gather strawberries all day long; 

Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants divine and strange 
That every hour their blossoms change, 
Ten thousand lovely hues ! 
With budding, fading, faded flowers 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 59 

He told of the magnolia, spread 

High as a cloud, high over head ! 

The cypress and her spire; 

— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 

Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 

To set the hills on fire. 

The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake, 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clouds. 

And then he said, " How sweet it were 

A fisher or a hunter there, 

A gardener in the shade. 

Still wandering with an easy mind 

To build a household fire, and find 

A home in every glade! 

" What days and what sweet years ! Ah me ! 

Our life were life indeed, with thee 

So passed in quiet bliss. 

And all the while," said he, " to know 

That we were in a world of woe. 

On such an earth as this ! " 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Fond thoughts about a father's love: 
" For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties. 
That our own children to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 

" Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
My helpmate in the woods to be, 



6o WORDSWORTH 

Our shed at night to '•ear; 
Or run, my own adopted bride, 
A sylvan huntress at my side, 
And drive the flying deer! 

" Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A solitary tear: 

She thought again— and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea, 
And drive the flying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right, 
We in the church our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did ; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 

Delighted all the while to think 

That on those lonesome floods, 

And green savannahs, she should share 

His board with lawful joy, and bear 

His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told, 
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
And with his dancing crest 
So beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roamed about, wtih vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a tropic skv. 

Might well be dangerous food 

For him. a Youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of Heaven, 

And such impetuous blood. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 6i 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Irregular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fair trees and lovely flowers; 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those gorgeous bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent: 
For passions linked to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw. 
With men to whom no better law 
Nor better life was known ; 
Deliberately, and undeceived, 
Those wild men's vices he received, 
And gave them back his own. 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became 
The slave of low desires: 
A man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feigned delight 
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 



62 WORDSWORTH 

^ Had loved her, night and mom: 

What could he less than love a maid 
Whose heart with so much nature played? 
So kind and so forlorn ! 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
" O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
Encompassed me on every side 
When first, in confidence and pride, 
I crossed the Atlantic Main. 

" It was a fresh and glorious world, 
A banner bright that was unfurled 
Before me suddenly: 
I looked upon those hills and plains, 
And seemed as if let loose from chains. 
To live at liberty. 

" But wherefore speak of this? For now, 
Sweet Ruth ! with thee, I know not how, 
I feel my spirit burn — 
Even as the east when day comes forth; 
And, to the west, and south, and north, 
Tlie morning doth return." 

Full soon that purer mind was gone; 
No hope, no wish remained, not one,— 
They stirred him now no more; 
New objects did new pleasure give. 
And once again he wished to live 
As lawless as before. 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
They for the voyage were prepared, 
And went to the sea-shore ; 
But, when they thither came, the Youth 
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 63 

" God help thee, Ruth ! " — Such pains she had, 

That she in half a year was mad, 

And in a prison housed; 

And there she sang tumultuous songs, 

By recollection of her wrongs 

To fearful passion roused. 

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew. 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew. 
Nor pastimes of the May, 
— They all were with her in her cell; 
And a wild brook with cheerful knell 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
There came a respite to her pain ; 
She from her prison fled ; 
But of the vagrant none took thought; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
Her shelter and her bread. 

Among the fields she breathed again : 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free; 
And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
And airs that gently stir 
The vernal leaves, she loved them still, 
Nor ever taxed them with the ill 
Which had been done to her. 

A barn her winter bed supplies; 
But, till the warmth of summer skies 



64 WORDSWORTH 

And summer days is gone, 

(And all do in this tale agree) 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray! 
And Ruth will, long before her day, 
Be broken down and old: 
Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 
Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is pressed by want of food 
She from her dwelling in the wood 
Repairs to a roadside; 
And there she begs at one steep place. 
Where up and down with easy pace 
The horsemen-travelers ride. 

That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
Or thrown away : but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers; 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening in his homeward walk 
The Quantock woodman hears. 

I, too, have passed her on the hills 
Setting her little water mills 
By spouts and fountains wild — 
Such small machinery as she turned 
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,- 
» A young and happy child ! 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 

Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallowed mould 

Thy corpse shall buried be ; 

For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 

And all the congregation sing 

A Christian psalm for thee. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 65 



MICHAEL 

A PASTORAL POEM 

If from the public way you turn your steps 

Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 

You will suppose that with an upright path 

Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 

But, courage ! for around that boisterous Brook 

The mountains have all opened out themselves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen ; but they 

Who journey hither find themselves alone 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude; 

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 

But for one object which you might pass by, 

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 

And to that place a story appertains, 

Which, though it be ungarnished with events, 

Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 

Or for the summer shade. It was the first 

Of those domestic tales that spake to me 

Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 

Whom I already loved; — not verily 

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 

Where was their occupation and abode. 

And hence this tale, while I was yet a Boy 

Careless of books, yet having felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agency 

Of natural objects led me on to feel 

For passions that were not my own, and think 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 

On man, the heart of man, and human life. 



66 WORDSWORTH 

Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen. 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, He heard the South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
" The winds are now devising work for me ! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives 
The traveller to a shelter — summoned him 
Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
That came to him and left him on the heights. 
So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
The common air ; the hills, which he so oft 
Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 
Which, like a book, preserved the memory 



LONGER NARRATIVES 67 

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, 

The certainty of honourable gain, 

Those fields, those hills — what could they less? had laid 

Strong hold on his affections, were to him 

A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 

The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely Matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had 
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, 
That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest, 
Tt was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in Shepherd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son 
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may truly say, 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was gone. 
And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even then 
Their labour did not cease; unless when all 
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, 
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 



68 WORDSWORTH 

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 
Did with a huge projection overbrow 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
Living a life of eager industry. 

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year 
There by the light of this old lamp they sat, 
Father and Son, while late into the night 
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
And was a public symbol of the life 
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large prospect. North and South, 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
And westward to the village near the Lake; 
And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. 

Thus living on through such a length of years. 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 



LONGER NARRATIVES 69 

Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 

Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all — 

Than that a child more than all other gifts. 

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 

And stirrings of inquietude, when they 

By tendency of nature needs must fail. 

Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 

His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 

Had done him female service, not alone 

For pastime and delight, as is the use 

Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 

To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 

His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Had work by his own door, or when he sat 
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool, 
Beneath that large old oak, which near their door 
Stood, — and, from its enormous breadth of shade 
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun. 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the shade. 
With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up 
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old, 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 



70 WORDSWORTH 

With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 

With iron, making it throughout in all 

Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, 

And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; 

And, to his office prematurely called, 

There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 

Something between a hindrance and a help ; 

And for this cause not always, I believe, 

Receiving from his Father hire of praise; 

Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, 

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 
Feelings and emanations — things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind; 
And that the Old Man's heart seemed born again? 

Thus in his Father's sight the boy grew up : 
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means, — 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him, — and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 



LONGER NARRATIVES 71 

A grievous penalty, but little less 

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 

At the first hearing, for a moment took 

More hope out of his life than he supposed 

That any old man ever could have lost. 

As soon as he had gathered so much strength 

That he could look his trouble in the face, 

It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell 

A portion of his patrimonial fields. 

Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 

And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 

Two evenings after he had heard the news, 

" I have been toiling more than seventy years, 

And in the open sunshine of God's love 

Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 

That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 

Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 

Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 

And I have lived to be a fool at last 

To my own family. An evil man 

That was, and made an evil choice, if he 

Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 

'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 

Of remedies, and of a cheerful hope. 

Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 

Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 

He shall possess it, free as is the wind 

That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 

Another kinsman — he will be our friend 

In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 

Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 

And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 

He quickly will repair this loss, and then 

May come again to us. If here he stay. 



72 



WORDSWORTH 



What can be done? Where every one is poor, 
What can be gained? " 

At this the Old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, 
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, 
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; 
And, with this basket on his arm, the Lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas: where he grew wondrous rich, 
And left estates and monies to the poor, 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
These thoughts, and many others of like sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The Old Man was glad, 
And thus resumed : — " Well, Isabel ! this scheme, 
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope. 
— Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 
— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for when she lay 



LONGER NARRATIVES 73 

By Michael's side, she through the two last nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: 
And when they rose at morning she could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
Were sitting at the door, '' Thou must not go : 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away, 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears. 
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work; 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the Old Man said, 
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
W^hich, if at such short notice he should go. 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Micliael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold: and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 



74 WORDSWORTH 

For this same purpose he had gathered up 

A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 

Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 

With Luke that evening thitherward he walked; 

And soon as they had reached the place he stopped 

And thus the Old Man spake to him : — " My Son, 

To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 

I look upon thee, for thou art the same 

That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 

And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 

I will relate to thee some little part 

Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good 

When thou art from me, even if I should speak 

Of things thou canst not know of. — After thou 

First earnest into the world — as oft befalls 

To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 

Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, 

And still I loved thee with increasing love. 

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 

Than when I heard thee by our own fireside 

First uttering, without words, a natural tune; 

When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 

Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month. 

And in the open fields my life was passed 

And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 

Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 

But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills, 

As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 

Have played together, nor with me didst thou 

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 

Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 

He sobbed aloud. The Old Man grasped his hand. 

And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 

That these are things of which I need not speak. 

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 

A kind and a good Father : and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 



LONGER NARRATIVES 75 

Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

Both of them sleep together: here they lived, 

As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 

At length their time was come, they were not loth 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 

I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived, 

But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burthened when they came to me; 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 

Than half of my inheritance was mme. 

I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 

And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou shouldst go." At this the Old Man paused; 

Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 

Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 

"This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 

It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 

Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands, 

Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may live 

To see a better day. At eighty-four 

I still am strong and hale; — do thou thy part; 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 

With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 

Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 

Will I without thee go again, and do 

All works which I was wont to do alone, 

Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy ! 

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 

With many hopes. — It should be so — Yes — yes — 

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 

To leave me, Luke ; thou hast been bound to me 

Only by links of love : when thou art gone 



7(y WORDSWORTH 

What will be left to us !— But, I forget 

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 

As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 

When thou art gone away, should evil men 

Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 

And of tliis moment; hither turn thy thoughts, 

And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 

Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 

When thou returnest, thou i.i this place wilt see 

A work which is not here : a covenant 

'Twill be between us But, whatever fate 

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 

And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 

The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down, 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
The Old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart 
He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept; 
And to the house together they returned. 
— Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 
Began his journey, and when he had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors. 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers. 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 

A good report did from their Kinsman come. 
Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news. 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
" The prettiest letters that were ever seen.'* 
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once again 



LONGER NARRATIVES ;7 

The Shepherd went about his daily work 

With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now 

Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 

He to that valley took his way, and there 

Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 

To slacken in his duty; and, at length 

He in the dissolute city gave himself 

To evil courses: ignominy and shame 

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 

To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
I have conversed with more than one who well 
Remember the Old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up towards the sun, 
And listened to the wind; and, as before. 
Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep, 
And for the land his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the Old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 



78 WORDSWORTH 

Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 

Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 

The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 

Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 

On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 

In all the neighbourhood: — yet the oak is left 

That grew beside their door ; and the remains 

Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. 



THE BROTHERS 

" These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live 

A profitable life: some glance along, 

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 

And they were butterflies to wheel about 

Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, 

Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag. 

Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 

Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 

Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 

But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 

Why can he tarry yonder f — In our church-yard 

Is neither epitaph nor monument. 

Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 

And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, 

Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 

It was 'a July evening; and he sate 

Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 

Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day. 

Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 

His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 

While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire. 

He fed the spindle of his youngest Child, 

Who turned her large round wheel in the open air 

With back and forward steps. Towards the field 



LONGER NARRATIVES 79 

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
Many a long look of wonder: and at last, 
Risen from his seat beside the snow-white ridge 
Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
He laid his implements with gentle care, 
Each in the other locked ; and, down the path 
That from his cottage to the church-yard led, 
He took his way, impatient to accost 
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 

'Twas one well known to him in former days, 
A Shepherd-lad ; — who ere his sixteenth year 
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 
His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters, — with the mariners 
A fellow mariner, — and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks. 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam 
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart, 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome. 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains, — saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees, 



8o WORDSWORTH 

And shepherds clad in the same country gray 
Which he himself had worn. 

And now, at last, 
From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
Acquired hy traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned, 
With a determined purpose to resume 
The life he had lived there; both for the sake 
Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that happy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother Shepherds on their native hills. 
— They were the last of all their race; and now, 
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire 
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, 
Towards the church-yard he had turned aside ; 
That, as he knew in what particular spot 
His family were laid, ' e thence might learn 
If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
Another grave was added. — He had found 
Another grave, — near which a full half -hour 
He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew 
Such a confusion in his memory. 
That he began to doubt; and hope was his 
That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
That it was not another grave ; but one 
He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
Through fields which once had been well known to him; 
And oh what joy the recollection now 
Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes. 
And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
Strange alteration wrought on every side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks. 
And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 8i 

By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 
Of the world's business to go wild alone: 
His arms have a perpetual holiday; 
The happy man will creep about the fields, 
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
Into his face, until the setting sun 
Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus 
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 
The good Man might have communed with himself, 
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 
Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, 
And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 

LEONARD 

You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: 

Your years make up one peaceful family ; 

And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 

And welcome gone, they are so like each other, 

They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral 

Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; 

And yet, some changes must take place among you : 

And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks. 

Can trace the finger of mortality, 

And see, that with our threescore years and ten 

We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 

(For many years ago I passed this road) 

There was a foot-way all along the fields 

By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft ! 



82 WORDSWORTH ^ 

To me it does not seem to wear the face 
Which then it had. 



PRIEST 

Nay, Sir, for aught I know. 
That chasm is much the same — 



LEONARD 

But, surely, yonder — 

PRIEST 

Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 

That does not play you false. — On that tall pike 

(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 

There were two Springs which bubbled side by side, 

Ao if they had been made that they might be 

Companions for each other: the huge crag 

Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared; 

The other, left behind, is flowing still. 

For accidents and changes such as these. 

We want not store of them; — a water-spout 

Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast 

For folks thi.t wander up and down like you, 

To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 

One roaring cataract ! — a sharp May-storm 

Will come with loads of January snow. 

And in one night send twenty score of sheep 

To feed the ravens; or a Shepherd dies 

By some untoward death among the rocks: 

The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge — 

A wood is felled : — and then for our own homes ! 

A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, 

A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 

The old house-clock is decked with a new face; 

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 



LONGER NARRATIVES 83 

To chronicle the time, we all have here 

A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 

For the whole dale, and one for each fireside — 

Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians, 

Commend me to these valleys ! 



LEONARD 

Yet your Church-yard 
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
To say that you are heedless of the past: 
An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
Here's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass. 
Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 



PRIEST 

Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! 

The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 

If every English church-yard were like ours; 

Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 

We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 

We talk about the dead by our firesides. 

And then, for our immortal part ! we want 

No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 

The thought of death sits easy on the man 

Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 



LEONARD 

Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts 
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt 
You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves? 



84 WORDSWORTH 



PRIEST 

For eight-score winters past, 
With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, 
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 



LEONARD 

'Tis a common case. 
We'll take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 
Left in the church-yard wall. 



PRIEST 

That's Walter Ewbank. 
He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
As ever were produced by youth and age 
Engendering in the blood of hale four-score. 
Through five long generations had the heart 
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 
Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
You see it yonder !— and those few green fields. 
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, 
Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
A little— yet a little— and old Walter, 
They left to him the family heart, and land 
With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
Year after year the old man still kept up 



LONGER NARRATIVES 85 

A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 

Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, 

And went into his grave before his time. 

Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him 

God only knows, but to the very last 

He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 

His pace was never that of an old man : 

I almost see him tripping down the path 

With his two grandsons after him : — but you, 

Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 

Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths 

Even in the longest day of midsummer — 

LEONARD 

But those two Orphans ! 

PRIEST 

Orphans ! — Such they were — 
Yet not while Walter lived: — for, though their parents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie. 
The old man was a father to the boys, 
Two fathers in one father: and if tears. 
Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 
This old Man, in the day of his old age. 
Was half a mother to them, — H you weep, Sir, 
To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

LEONARD 

These Boys — I hope 
They loved this good old man? 



86 WORDSWORTH 

PRIEST 

They did — and truly: 
But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. For, 
Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to them by reason of his age, 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness. 
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare. 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months. 
Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see, 
To hear, to meet them ! — From their house the school 
Is distant three short miles — and in the time 
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, 
Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps 
Remained at home, go staggering through the fords. 
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, 
Oil windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 
Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 
Their two books lying both on a dry stone. 
Upon the hither side: and once I said. 
As I remember, looking round these rocks 
And hills on which we all of us were born. 
That God who made the great book of the world 
Would bless such piety — 

LEONARD 

It may be then — 

PRIEST 

Never did worthier lads break English bread; 
The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw 



LONGER NARRATIVES 87 

With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
Could never keep these boys away from church. 
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. 
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; 
They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
Then they would write, ay and speak too, as well 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard! 
The very night before he went away, 
In my own house I put into his hand 
A Bible, and I'd wager house and field 
That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 

LEONARD 

It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 
A comfort to each other — 

PRIEST 

That they might 
Live to such end, is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished, 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed: 
But Leonard — 

LEONARD 

Then James still is left among you? 

PRIEST 

'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 



88 WORDSWORTH 

Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 

For the boy loved the life which v^e lead here; 

And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 

His soul was knit to this his native soil. 

But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 

To strive with such a torrent ; when he died. 

The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, 

A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know. 

Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years: — 

Well — all was gone, and they were destitute. 

And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 

Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 

Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. 

If there were one among us who had heard 

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 

From the great Gavel, down by Leeza's Banks, 

And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 

The day would be a very festival ; 

And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 

Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir ! 

This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him — 

Living or dead. — When last we heard of him. 

He was in slavery among the Moors 

Upon the Barbary Coast. — 'Twas not a little 

That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt. 

Before it ended in his death, the Youth 

Was sadly crossed — Poor Leonard ! when we parted, 

He took me by the hand, and said to me. 

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, 

To live in peace upon his father's land, 

And lay his bones among us. 



LEONARD 

If that day 
Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him ; 
He would himself, no doMbt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 



LONGER NARRATIVES 89 

PRIEST 

Happy • Sir — 

LEONARD 

You said his kindred all were in their graves, 
And that he had one Brother — 



PRIEST 

That is but 
A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth 
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; 
And Leonard being always by his side 
Had done so many offices about him, 
That, though he was not of a timid nature. 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy 
In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
The little colour that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and pined- 



LEONARD 

But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! 

PRIEST 

Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us; 

He was the Child of all the dale — he lived 

Three months with one, and six months with another ; 

And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: 

And many, many happy days were his. 

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 

His absent Brother still was at his heart. 

And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 



90 WORDSWORTH 

(A practice till this time unknown to him) 

That often, rising from his bed at night, 

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 

He sought his Brother Leonard. — You are moved ! 

Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, 

1 judged you most unkindly. 



How did he die at last ? 



LEONARD 

But this Youth, 

PRIEST 



One sweet May morning, 
(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
With two or three companions, whom their course 
Of occupation led from height to height 
Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length. 
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
The humour of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale, 
Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. 
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath. 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 
Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place 
On their return, they found that he was gone. 
No ill was feared; but one of them by chance 
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
Which at that time was James's home, there learned 
That nobody had seen him all that day : 
The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the l)rook 
Some hastened, some towards the lake : ere noon 



LONGER NARRATIVES gi 

They found him at the foot of that same rock 
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 

LEONARD 

And that then is his grave ! — Before his death 
You say that he saw many happy years? 

PRIEST 

Ay, that he did — 

LEONARD 

And all went well with him? — 



PRIEST 

If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 

LEONARD 

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy? — 

PRIEST 

Yes, long before he died, he found that time 

Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 

His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 

He talked about him with a cheerful love. 

LEONARD 

He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 

PRIEST 

Nay, God forbid! — You recollect I mentioned 
A habit which disquietude and grief 



92 WORDSWORTH 

Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 

That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 

Upon the grass, — and waiting for his comrades, 

He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 

He to the margin of the precipice 

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong. 

And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time, 

We guess, that in his hand he must have held 

His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff 

It had been caught ; and there for many years 

It hung — and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended- 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; 
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 
As the Priest lifted up the latch turned round, — 
And, looking at the grave, he said, *' My Brother ! " 
The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated 
That Leonard would partake his homely fare: 
The other ihanked him with a fervent voice: 
But added, that, the evening being calm. 
He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
That overhung the road ; he there stopped short, 
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
All that the Priest had said : his early years 
Were with him in his heart : his cherished hopes. 
And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now. 
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
A place in which he could not bear to live: 
So he relinquished all his purposes. 
He travelled on to Egremont : and thence, 
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 



LONGER NARRATIVES 93 

Reminding him of what had passed between them; 
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 
That it was from the weakness of his heart 
He had not dared to tell him who he was. 

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
A seaman, a gray-headed Mariner. 



LAODAMIA* 

" With sacrifice, before the rising morn 
Performed, my slaughtered Lord have I required; 
And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn, 
Him of the infernal Gods have I desired: 
Celestial pity I again implore : — 
Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; 

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 

Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands; 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! 
What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 

That calms all fear : *' Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 

Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air: 

He comes to tarry with thee three hours* space: 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face! " 



94 WORDSWORTH 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp 

Again that consummation she essayed : 
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 
As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
And re-assume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaos, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, 1 pray, the vision with thy voice: 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed 
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect: — Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

" Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 

Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: 

A generous cause a victim did demand; 

And forth T leapt upon the sandy plain; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

" Supreme of heroes — bravest, noblest, best! 
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave : 



LONGER NARRATIVES 95 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 



" No Spectre greets me — no vain Shadow this ; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae ^ threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

"This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 
Know, virtue were not virtue, if the joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 
And surely as they vanish, — Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly — Erebus* disdains: 
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

" Be taught, O faithful consort, to control 
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
And JEson stood a youth *mid youthful peers. 

" The Gods to us are merciful — and they 

Yet further may relent: for mightier far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 



96 WORDSWORTH 

"But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace!" he said. 

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; 

The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsigh'd for, and the future sure; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 

In happier beauty: more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 

" The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 

" And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
Chieftains and kings in counsel were detained; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

"The wished- for wind was given: — I then revolved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea; 

And, if no worthier led the way. resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 



LONGER NARRATIVES 97 

The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

'Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
When ot thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
The paths which we have trod — these fountains, flowers; 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array 
Yet of their number no one dares to die'? 
In soul I swept the indignity away: 
Old frailties then recurred: — but lofty thought, 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

"And thou, though strong in love, art all tco weak; 

In reason, in self-government too slow; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest re-union in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
Towards a higher object. — Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love," — 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 

Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain 

The hours are past — too brief had they been years — 

And him no mortal effort can detain : 

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay. 



98 WORDSWORTH 

Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved! 
Her, who in reason's spite, yet without crime, 
Was in a trance of passion thus removed; 
Delivered from the galling yoke of time 
And these frail elements — to gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died; 

And ever, when such stature they had gained 

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight: 

A constant interchange of growth and blight! 



LYRICS 

A lyric is a brief poem conveying a single emotional impression. 
Usually it presents the poet's personal feelings or views, as 
in the Lines Written in Early Spring (page loo), though it 
may deal with descriptive or narrative effects in a personal 
way, as in The Reverie of Poor Susan (below), or The 
Sparrorv's Nest (pa^e 104). The term has long been disso- 
ciated from the old idea of poetry intended to be sung. 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight : ppears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide. 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 



Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 



She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 

99 



:oo WORDSWORTH 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 



To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 



Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower. 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 



The birds around me hopped and played ; 
Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
But the least motion which they made. 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 



The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 



From Heaven if this belief be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man? 



LYRICS loi 

Strange fits of passion have I known:* 
And I will dare to tell, 
But in the Lover's ear alone, 
What once to me befell. 

When she 1 loved looked every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way. 
Beneath an evening-moon. 

Upon the moon I fixed my eye. 

All over the wide lea; 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reached the orchard-plot; 
And, as we climbed the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 



In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 
On the descending moon. 

My horse moved on, hoof after hoof 
He raised, and never stopped : 
When down behind the cottage-roof, 
At once, the bright moon dropped. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a Lover's head ! 

" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 

"If Lucy should be dead ! " 



102 WORDSWORTH 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove, 

A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half-hidden from the eye ! 

— Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 



I traveled among unknown men. 

In lands beyond the sea; 
Nor, England ! did I k^.ow till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
The bowers where Lucy played; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 



LYRICS 103 

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown : 
This Child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 



" Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 



" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her ; for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mold the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 



" The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 



104 WORDSWORTH 

" And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



A slumber did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears: 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

Thj touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force; 

She neither hears nor sees; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 

THE SPARROW'S NEST 

Behold, within the leafy shade, 
Those bright blue eggs together laid! 
On me the chance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
I started — seeming to espy 
The home and sheltered bed, 
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
My Sister Emmeline * and I 
Together visited. 



LYRICS 105 

She k)oked at it as if she feared it; 
Still wishing, dreading, to be near it: 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 
Was with me when a Boy: 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
And love, and thought, and joy. 



LOUISA 

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION 

I met Louisa in the shade, 

And, having seen that lovely Maid, 

Why should I fear to say 

That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 

And down the rocks can leap along 

Like rivulets in May? 

And she hath smiles to earth unknown ; 
Smiles, that with motion of their own 
Do spread, and sink, and rise ; 
That come and go with endless play, 
And ever, as they pass away, 
Are hidden in her eyes. 

She loves her fire, her cottage-home; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
In weather rough and bleak; 
And, when against the wind she strains, 
Oh ! might I kiss tlie mountain rains 
That sparkle on her cheek. 

Take all that's mine " beneath the moon,'* 
If I with her but half a noon 



io6 WORDSWORTH 

May sit beneath the walls 
Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
When up she winds along the brook 
To hunt the waterfalls. 



TO THE DAISY 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees. 

Thoughts of thy raising; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 



LYRICS 107 

That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, and behold! 
A silver shield v^ith boss of gold 
That spreads itself, some faery bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, v^ith glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Bright Flower! for by that name at last 

When all my reveries are past 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent Creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nat re! 



My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



ioS WORDSWORTH 



TO A BUTTERFLY 



I've watched you now a full half -hour, 

Self-poised upon that yellow flower; 

And, little Butterfly ! indeed 

I know not if you sleep or feed. 

How motionless ! — not frozen seas 

More motionless ! and then 

What joy awaits you, when the breeze 

Hath found you out among the trees, 

And calls you forth again! 

This plot of orchard-ground is ours; 

My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; 

Here rest your wings when they are weary; 

Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 

Come often to us, fear no wrong; 

Sit near us on the bough ! 

We'll talk of sunshine and of song; 

And summer days, when we were young; 

Sweet childish days, that were as long 

As twenty days are now. 



TO THE CUCKOO 

blithe New-comer 1 1 have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice: 

O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
At once far off and near. 



LYRICS 109 

Though babbling only to the Vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my schoolboy days 
I listen'd to; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place; 
That is fit home for Thee ! 



THE GREEN LINNET 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head. 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 
Of spring's unclouded weather, 



IIG WORDSWORTH 

In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 
My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest: 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array 
Presiding Spirit here to-day 
Dost lead the revels of the May; 
And this is thy dominion. 

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
Make all one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
Art sole in thy employment; 
A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair; 
Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perched in ecstasies 
Yet seeming still to hover; 
There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 
A Brother of the dancing leaves; 
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves 
Pours forth his song in gushes; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
While fluttering in the bushes. 



LYRICS III 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL AT INVERSNEYDE, 
UPON LOCH LOMOND 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head: 

And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 

Those trees — a veil just half withdrawn, 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake. 

This little bay, a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy Abode; 

In truth together ye do seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream ; 

Such Forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

But, O fair Creature ! in the light 

Of common day, so heavenly bright, 

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart; 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee neither know I nor thy peers: 

And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away; 
For never saw I mien, or face, 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed, 
Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness : 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer: 



112 WORDSWORTH 

A face with gladness overspread; 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quid and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech: 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 

happy pleasure! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality: 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea: and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
Thy elder Brother I would be, 
Thy Father — anything to thee. 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place: 
Joy have I had; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
Then why should I be loth to stir? 
I feel this place was made for her; 



LYRICS 113 

To give new pleasure like the past, 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 

For I, methinks, till 1 grow old 

As fair before me shall behold 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 

And Thee, the Spirit of them all! 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
O listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant 

So sweetly to reposing bands 

Of Travellers in some shady haunt, 

Among Arabian sands : 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things. 

And battles long ago : 

Or is it some more humble lay. 

Familiar matter of to-day? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again? 



114 WORDSWORTH 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listened till I had my fill, 
And when I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



She was a Phantom of delight ' 
When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death; 



LYRICS 115 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



I wandered lonely as a Cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden Daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: — 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company; 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude, 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the Daffodils. 



ii6 WORDSWORTH 



TO A SKY-LARK 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing. 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 

And to-day my heart is weary; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine; 

Lift me, guide me, high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning, 
Thou art laughing and scorning; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loth 
To be such a traveller as L 
Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 
Joy and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; 

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on. 

And hope for higher raptures^ when life's day is done. 



LYRICS 117 

Nightingale ! thou surely art 
A creature of a " fiery heart " ; — 

These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce; 

Tumukuous harmony and fierce ! 

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 

Had helped thee to a Valentine; 

A song in mockery and despite 

Of shades, and dews, and silent night; 

And steady bliss, and all the loves 

Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 

1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day; 
His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come at by the breeze: 

He did not cease; but cooed — and cooed; 
And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
Slow to begin, and never ending; 
Of serious faith, and inward glee; 
That was the song — the song for me ! 



TO 



Look at the fate of summer flowers. 
Which blow at daybreak, droop ere evensong; 
And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours. 
Measured by what we are and ought to be, 
Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
Is not so long ! 

If human Life do pass away, 
Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower. 
If we are creatures of a winter's day; 
What space hath Virgin's beauty to disclose 
Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing rose ? 
Not even an hour ! 



ii8 WORDSWORTH 

The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
The happiest lovers Arcady might boast, 
Could not the entrance of this thought forbid: 
O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid ! 
Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade, 
So soon be lost. 

Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth 
'* To draw, out of the object of his eyes," 
The while on thee they gaze in simple truth, 
Hues more exalted, " a refined Form," 
That dreads not age, nor sutYers from the worm, 
And never dies. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond 

Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 

— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 

All independent of the leafy Spring." 



Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine. 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 



LYRICS 119 

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 

A Rock there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights; 
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 

Like stars, at various heights; 
And one coy Primrose to that Rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown, 
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own ; 
A lasting link in Nature's chain 

From highest heaven let down ! 

The flowers, still faithful to the stems. 

Their fellowship renew ; 
The stems are faithful to the root, 

Ihat worketh out of view; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 

Though threatening still to fall ;. 
The earth is constant to her sphere; 

And God upholds them all : 
So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 

Her annual funeral. 



Here closed the meditative strain; 

But air breathed soft that day, 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered. 

The sunny vale looked gay ; 
And to the Primrose of the Rock 

I gave this after-lay. 



20 WORDSWORTH 

I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 
Like Thee, in field and grove 

Revive unenvied; — mightier far 
Than tremblings that reprove 

Our vernal tendencies to hope 
Is God's redeeming love; 

That love which changed — for wan disease 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 

Their moral element, 
And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneficent. 

Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 
The reasoning Sons of Men, 

From one oblivious winter called 
Shall rise, and breathe again; 

And in eternal summer lose 
Our threescore years and ten. 

To humbleness of heart descends 
This prescience from on high, 

The faith that elevate^ the just, 
Before and when they die; 

And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
A court for Deity. 



REFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS 
THERE WAS A BOY ^ 

There was a Boy; ye knew him well. Ye Cliffs 

And islands of Winander ! — many a time 

At evening, when the earliest stars began 

To move along the edges of the hills, 

Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 

Uplifted, he, as through an ii.strument, 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 

That they might answer him. — And they would shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout again, 

Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 

Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 

Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced 

That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, 

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 

Has carried far into his heart the voice 

Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene 

Would enter unawares into his mind 

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 

Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
Where he was born : the grassy church-yard hangs 



122 WORDSWORTH 

Upon a slope above the village-school; 

And, through that church-yard when my way has led 

At evening, I believe that oftentimes 

A long half-hour together 1 have stood 

Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 



LINES, 

composed a few miles above tintern abbey, on revisit- 
ing the banks of the wye during a tour 

July 13, 1798 

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur.* — Once again 

Do 1 behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 

The wild green landscape. Once again I see 

These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines 

Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms. 

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The Hermit sits alone. 

* The river is not aflfected by the tides a few miles above 
Tintern. 



REFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS 123 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our ^uman blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the dee power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and thi fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro* the woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 



124 WORDSWORTH 

And now, with gleams of hal {-extinguished thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again: 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was, The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite; a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor gratmg though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime 



REFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS 125 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
And the round ocean and the livmg air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinkmg things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear, both what they half create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once. 
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy: for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 



126 WORDSWORTH 

Our cheerful faith, that all which wc behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 

And let the misty mountain winds be free 

To blow against thee: and, in after years, 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance 

If I should be where 1 no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together ; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty clififs, 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake I 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS ' 

IN CALLING FORTH ANT) STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION 
IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH 

^ Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 

Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! 
And givest to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 



REFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS 127 

By day or star-light, tlius from my first dawn 
Of childhood didst thoa intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soul 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, 
But with high objects, with enduring things, 
With life and nature ; purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 

With stinted kindness. In November days, 

When vapours rolling down the valleys made 

A lonely scene more lonesome: among woods 

At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights, 

When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 

Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went 

In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 

'Twas mine among the fields both day and night. 

And by the waters, all the summer long. 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 

Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 

The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 

I heeded not the summons : — happy time 

It was indeed for all of us; for me 

It was a time of rapture ! — Clear and loud 

The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 

Proud and exulting like an untired horse 

That cares not for his home. — All shod with steel 

We hissed along the polished ice, in games 

Confederate, imitative of the chase 

And woodland pleasures. — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 

And not a voice was idle : with the din 

Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud; 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 



28 WORDSWORTH 

Tinkled like iron ; while the distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,. 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 

Into a silent bay, or sportively 

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 

To cut across the reflex of a star; 

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 

Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, 

When we had given our bodies to the wind, 

And all the shadowy banks on either side 

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 

The rapid line of motion, then at once 

Have T, reclining back upon my heels. 

Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 

Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 

With visible motion her diurnal round ! 

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 

Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 

Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR* 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be? 

It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright: 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. 
But makes his moral being his prime care; 



REFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS 129 

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest dower; 

Control? them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 

By objects, which might force the soul to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 

Is placable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 

As tempted more ; more able to endure. 

As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 

He labours good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

— Who, if he rise to station of command. 

Rises by open means ; and there will stand 

On honourable terms, or else retire. 

And in himself possess his own desire; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

3ome awful moment to which Heaven has joined 



130 WORDSWORTH 

Great issues, good or bad for human land. 

Is happy as a Lover; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed, 

Come when it will, is equal to the need : 

— He who though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 

Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be. 

Are at his heart; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 

Where what he most doth value must be won: 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last, 

From well to better, daily self-surpast : 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 

Or he must go to dust without his fame, 

And leave a dead unprofitable name, 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: 

This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 

That every Man in arms should wish to be. 



REFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS 131 



EVENING VOLUNTARY 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 

That come but as a curse to party-strife; 

Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 

Of languor puts his rosy garland by; 

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 

Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave — 

Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words, 

Which practised talent readily affords, 

Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords; 

Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 

With genuine rapture and with fervent love 

The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 

Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake; 

Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 

Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 

But who is innocent? By grace divine, 
Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine, 
Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
Of rational and manly sympathy. 
To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 
And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, 
Add every charm the Universe can show 
Through every change its aspects undergo — 
Care may be respited, but not repealed; 
No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 
Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace. 
If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, 
Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance; 
To the distempered Intellect refuse 
His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 



SONNETS 

A sonnet is a poem of precise plan, dealing formally with a 
single idea. Its length is always fourteen lines, and its 
rhyme-scheme is generally either one of two patterns. The 
first, which Wordsworth used, is the Italian or (from its 
great exponent, Petrarch) Petrarchan; the second is the 
Elizabethan, or Shaksperean, known almost wholly in Eng- 
land, and notably dilTerent in effect. 

The rhyme-scheme of the Italian sonnet is as follows : 
a b b a, a b b a, c d c, d c d. 
It will be seen that the first eight lines (the octave) appear 
as two identically rhymed sets of four lines each (the 
(luatrains). The rhynic-pattern of the last six lines (the 
sestet) may vary considerably from the model given above, 
and may employ three instead of two rhymes. 

The division into octave and sestet suggests the use of the 
octave for formulating an idea, and of the sestet for con- 
cluding it or commenting upon it. In the Italian usage this 
practice was closely followed ; but English poets, including 
Milton and Wordsworth, have treated the form with greater 
freedom as to its organic division. That is. with them the 
break in the formal treatment of the theme frequently does 
not coincide exactly with the transition from octave to 
sestet. The second, third, and fourth examples in the fol- 
lowing pages, however, show the sonnet in very nearly its 
typical Italian form. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrov^ room, 
And hermits are contented with their cells, 
And students with their pensive citadels: 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, 
High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells, 
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: 
In truth, the prison, unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
133 



134 WORDSWORTH 

Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground : 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
Should find brief solace there, as 1 have found. 

ADMONITION 

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may 
have happened to he enamoured of some beautiful place of 
Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes. 

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 

— The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 

Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 

But covet not the Abode; — forbear to sigh, 

As many do, repining while they look ; 

Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 

This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 

Think what the Home must be if it were thine, 

Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, 

door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor; 
The roses to the porch which they entwine. 
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
On which it should be touched, would melt away. 

TO SLEEP 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 



SONNETS 135 

So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 



It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 

Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake. 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 

And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 



The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For tliis, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not.— Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus^ rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton * blow his wreathed horn. 



136 WORDSWORTH 

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS, 

AUGUST, 1802 

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 
Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Shouldst be my Country's emblem ; and shouldst wink, 
Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
One life, one glory! I with many a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 
Among men who do not love her, linger here. 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 

SEPTEMBER 3, l802 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare. 

Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples He 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 

Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



SONNETS 137 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC ' 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 

And was the safeguard of the West; the worth 

Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 

She was a maiden City, bright and free; 

No guile seduced, no force could violate; 

And when she took unto herself a Mate, 

She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade. 

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reached its final day: 

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 

Of that which once was great is passed away. 



THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION 
OF SWITZERLAND* 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven: 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

— Of one deep ])Hss thine ear hath been bereft; 

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 

For. high-soulVl Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 

And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee ! 



138 WORDSWORTH 



WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
To think that now our Life is only drest 
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: 
The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry; and these we adore: 
Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence. 
And pure religion breathing household laws. 



LONDON, 1802 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
Pure as the naked ' eavens, majestic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



SONNETS 139 



When I have borne in memory what has tamed 

Great nations ; how ennobling thoughts depart 

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 

And I by my affection was beguiled: 

What wonder if a Poet now and then. 

Among the many movements of his mind. 

Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 



PERSONAL TALK 

I am not One who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
Of friends, who live within an easy walk. 
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: 
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright. 
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, 
These all wear out of me, like Forms with chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors for one feast-night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence long. 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. 
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 



140 WORDSWORTH 



Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 

I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 

But Thee " — deep buried in the silent tomb, 

That spot which no "icissitude can find ? 

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind — 

But how could I forget thee ? Through what power 

Even for the least division of an hour 

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 

To my most grievous loss ! — That thought's return 

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; 

That neither present time, nor years unborn 

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 



Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
His vows to Fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right. 
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undismayed; 
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height, 
Round which the elements of worldly might 
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. 
O joyless power that stands by lawless force ! 
Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate, 
Internal darkness and unquiet breath; 
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course, 
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate 
By violent and ignominious death. 



SONNETS 141 



I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret 

Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 

(So might he seem) of all the glittering quire! 

Blue ether still surrounds him — yet — and yet; 

But now the horizon's rocky parapet 

Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, 

He burns — transmuted to a sullen fire, 

That droops and dwindles — and the appointed debt 

To the flying moments paid, is seen no more. 

Angels and gods ! we struggle with our fate. 

While health, power, glory, pitiably decline. 

Depressed and then extinguished : and our state 

In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, 

That no to-morrow s' all our beams restore ! 



Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there or none. 

While a fair region round the traveler lies 

Which he forbears again to look upon; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. 

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 

Of meditation, slipping in between 

The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 

Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : 

With Thought and Love companions of our way, 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. 

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 

Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 



ODES 

The ode, in English use, is hard to define as a poetic medium of 
either fixed form or purpose. It falls, however, within the 
limits of lyric length, and has always a subject-matter of 
superior dignity and seriousness. The phrase, *' a poetic 
oration," probably describes it as adequately as a brief defi- 
nition can. 

ODE TO DUTY 

" Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum 
recto facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." ^ 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe; 

From vain temptations dost set free; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them ; wlio, in love and truth, 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth: 

Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 

Who do thy work, and know it not : 

Long may the kindly impulse last ! 

But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast ! 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 

143 



144 WORDSWORTH 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried; 

No sport of every random gust. 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust; 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task, in smoother walks to stray; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control; 

But in the quietness of thought: 

Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Yet not the less would I throughout 

Still act according to the voice 

Of my own wish ; and feel past doubt 

That my submissiveness was choice: 

Not seeking in the school of pride 

For " precepts over-dignified," 

Denial and restraint I prize 

No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.' 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face i 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 



ODES 145 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh 
and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee: I myself commend 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice; 

The confidence of reason give; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! 



ODE TO LYCORIS 

MAY, 1817 



An age hath been when Earth was proud 

Of lustre too intense 

To be sustained; and Mortals bowed 

The front in self-defence. 

Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 

Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed 

While on tlie wing the Urchin played. 

Could fearlessly approach the shade ? 

— Enough for one soft vernal day. 

If I, a bard of ebbing time. 

And nurtured in a fickle clime, 

May haunt this horned bay; 

Whose amorous water multiplies 

The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes; 

And smooths her liquid breast— to show 

These swan-like specks of mountain snow. 

White as the pair that slid along the plains 

Of Heaven, when Venus held the reins ! 



146 WORDSWORTH 



II 

In youth we love the darksome lawn 

Brushed by the owlet's wing; 

Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 

And Autumn to the Spring. 

Sad fancies do we then affect, 

In luxury of disrespect 

To our own prodigal excess 

Of too familiar happiness. 

Lycoris (if such name befit 

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) 

When Nature marks the year's decline, 

Be ours to welcome it ; 

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 

Before the path of milder suns; 

Pleased while the sylvan world displays 

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; 

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell 

Of the resplendent miracle. 



Ill 

But something whispers to my heart 

That, as we downward tend, 

Lycoris ! life requires an art 

To which our souls must bend; 

A skill — to balance and supply; 

And, ere the flowing fount be dry. 

As soon it must, a sense to sip, 

Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 

Then welcome, above all, the Guest 

Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 

Seem to recall the Deity 

Of youth into the breast; 

May pensive Autumn ne'er present 

A claim to her disparagement ! 



ODES 147 

While blossoms and the budding spray 
Inspire us in our own decay; 
Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 
Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul ! 



ODE, ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

II 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the Rose ; 

The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound. 



148 WORDSWORTH 

To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And 1 again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 



IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

evil day ! if I were sullen 
While the Earth herself is adorning 

This sweet May -morning. 
And the children are culling 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm: — 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which 1 have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is i^one ; 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 



ODES 149 



Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar: 

Not in entire forget fulness. 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 



VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And even with something of a Mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim. 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 



150 WORDSWORTH 



VII 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years* Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest, 



ODES 151 

Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 

Thou, over whom thy Immortality 

Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 

A Presence which is not to be put by ; 

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 

The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



IX 

O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 

That nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised. 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections. 



152 WORDSWORTH 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be, 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering. 



ODES 153 



In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



XI 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Think not of any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway, 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



PASSAGES FROM THE PRELUDE AND THE 
EXCURSION 

The Prelude was written as an introduction to a long philosophi- 
cal poem, The Recluse, which was never completed. The 
design of this poem is given in Wordsworth's introduction to 
The Excursion (published in 1814). TJw Excursion was to 
have been the second of the three parts of The Recluse. Of 
the first and third parts, only a single book of the first 
was finished, and this was not printed until long after 
Wordsworth's death. 

The Prelude, although composed from 1799 to 1805, was not 
published until 1850, the year in which Wordsworth died. 
The Prelude is, as a poetical autobiography and a sort of 
diary of the poet's intellectual experiences, a work of pecu- 
liar personal interest, though of frequently inferior poetical 
quality. 

PRELUDE, II, 396-451 

Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on, 
From Nature and her overflowing soul 
I had received so much, that all my thoughts 
Were steeped in feeling: I was only then 
Contented, when with bliss ineffable 
I felt the sentiment of Being spread 
O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still ; 
O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought 
And human knowledge, to the human eye 
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; 
O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, 
Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that glides 
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 
If high the transport, great the joy I felt 
Communing in this sort through Earth and Heaven 
With every form of creature, as it looked 
Towards the Uncreated with a countenance 
lis 



156 WORDSWORTH 

Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
One song they sang, and it was audible. 
Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, 
O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 
Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. 

If this be error, and another faith 
Find easier access to the pious mind, 
Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
Those human sentiments that make this earth 
So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes 
And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
That dwell among the hills where I was born. 
If in my youth I have been pure in heart. 
If, mingling with the world, I am content 
With my own modest pleasures, and have lived 
With God and Nature communing, removed 
From little enmities and low desires, 
The gift is yours; if in these times of fear, 
This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, 
If, mid indifference and apathy, 
And wicked exultation when good men 
On every side fall off, we know not how, 
To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
Of peace and quiet and domestic love, 
Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
On visionary minds; if, in this time 
Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
Despair not of our nature, but retain 
A more than Roman confidence, a faith 
That fails not, in all sorrow my support, 
The blessing of my life: the gift is yours, 
Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature ! Thou hast fed 
My lofty speculations; and in thee, 
For this uneasy heart of ours I find 
A never-failing principle of joy 
And purest passion. 



i 



THE PRELUDE 157 



PRELUDE, VIII, 215-311 

Yet, hail to you 
Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales. 
Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice, 
Powers of my native region ! Ye that seize 
The heart with firmer grasp ! Your snows and streams 
Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, 
That howl so dismally for him who treads 
Companionless your awful solitudes ! 
There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long 
To wait upon the storms: of their approach 
Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives 
His flock, and thither from the homestead bears 
A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, 
And deals it out, their regular nourishment 
Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring 
Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, 
And w^hen the flock, with warmer weather, climbs 
Higher and higher, him his office leads 
To watch their goings, whatsoever track 
The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home 
At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun 
Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat. 
Than he lies down upon some shining rock, 
And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen, 
As is their wont, a pittance from strict time, 
For rest not needed or exchange of love. 
Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet 
Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers 
Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought 
In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn 
Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies, 
His staff protending like a hunter's spear, 
Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag. 
And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. 
Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy^s call, 



158 WORDSWORTH 

Might deign to follow him through what he does 

Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels, 

In those vast regions where his service lies, 

A freeman, wedded to his life of hope 

And hazard, and hard lahor interchanged 

With that majestic indolence so dear 

To native man. A rambling schoolboy, thus 

I felt his presence in his own domain, 

As of a lord and master, or a power, 

Or genius, under Nature, under God, 

Presiding; and severest solitude 

Had more commanding looks when he was there. 

When up the lonely brooks on rainy days 

Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills 

By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes 

Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, 

In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, 

His sheep like Greenland bears ; or, as he stepped 

Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow, 

His form hath flashed upon me, glorified 

By the deep radiance of the setting sun : 

Or him have I descried in distant sky, 

A solitary object and sublime. 

Above all height ! like an aerial cross 

Stationed alone upon a spiry rock 

Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man 

Ennobled outwardly before my sight. 

And thus my heart was early introduced 

To an unconscious love and reverence 

Of human nature; hence the human form 

To me became an index of delight, 

Of grace and honour, power and worthiness. 

Meanwhile this creature — spiritual almost 

As those of books, but more exalted far; 

Far more of an imaginative form 

Than the gay Corin of the groves, who lives 

For his own fancies, or to dance by the hour, 

In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst — 



THE PRELUDE 159 

Was, for the purposes of kind, a man 

With the most common; husband, father; learned, 

Could teach, admonish; suffered with the rest 

From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear; 

Of this I little saw, cared less for it, 

But something must have felt. 

Call ye these appearances — 
Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth. 
This sanctity of Nature given to man — 
A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore 
On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things; 
Whose truth is not a motion or a shape 
Instinct with vital functions, but a block 
Or waxen image which yourselves have made, 
And ye adore ! But blessed be the God 
Of Nature and of Man that this was so; 
That men before my inexperienced eyes 
Did first present themselves thus purified, 
Removed, and to a distance that was fit: 
And so we all of us in some degree 
Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led. 
And howsoever; were it otherwise, 
And we found evil fast as we find good 
In our first years, or think that it is found. 
How could the innocent heart bear up and live ! 

PRELUDE, XIV, 1-275 

In one of those excursions (may they ne'er 
Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts 
Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, 
I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time, 
And westward took my way, to see the sun 
Rise, from the top of Snowdon. To the door 
Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base 
We came, and roused the shepherd who attends 
The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty guide ; 
Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied forth. 



i6o WORDSWORTH 

It was a close, warm, breezeless Summer night, 
Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping fog 
Low-hung and thick that covered all the sky; 
But, undiscouraged, we began to climb 
The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us round, 
And, after ordinary travellers' talk 
With our conductor, pensively we sank 
Each into commerce with his private thoughts : 
Thus did we breast the ascent, and by myself 
Was nothing either seen or heard that checked 
Those musings or diverted, save that once 
The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the crags, 
Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, teased 
His coiled-up prey with barkings turbulent. 
This small adventure, for even such it seemed 
In that wild place and at the dead of night, 
Being over and forgotten, on we wound 
In silence as before. With forehead bent 
Earthward, as if in opposition set 
Against an enemy, I panted up 
With eager pace, and no less eager thoughts. 
Thus might we wear a midnight hour away, 
Ascending at loose distance each from each. 
And I, as chanced, the foremost of the band; 
When at my feet the ground appeared to brighten, 
And with a step or two seemed brighter still ; 
Nor was time given to ask or learn the cause, 
For instantly a light upon the turf 
Fell like a flash, and lo ! as I looked up, 
The Moon hung naked in a firmament 
Of azure without cloud, and at my feet 
Rested a silent sea of hoary mist. 
A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved 
All over this still ocean; and beyond, 
Far, far beyond, the solid vapours stretched, 
In headlands, tongues, and promontory shapes. 
Into the main Atlantic, that appeared 
To dwindle, and gave up his majesty, 



THE PRELUDE i6i 

Usurped upon far as the sight could reach. 
Not so the ethereal vault; encroachment none 
Was there, nor loss: only the inferior stars 
Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light 
In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon 
Who, from her sovereign elevation, gazed 
Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay 
All meek and silent, save that through a rift — 
Not distant from the shore whereon we stood, 
A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing-place — 
Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, streams 
Innumerable, roaring with one voice ! 
Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour, 
For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens. 

When into air had partially dissolved 
That vision, given to spirits of the night 
And three chance human wanderers, in calm thought 
Reflected, it appeared to me the type 
Of a majestic intellect, its acts 
And its possessions, what it has and craves, 
What in itself it is, and would become. 
There I beheld the emblem of a mind 
That feeds upon infinity, thr' broods 
Over the dark abyss, intent to hear 
Its voices issuing forth to silent light 
In one continuous stream; a mind sustained 
By recognitions of transcendent power, 
In sense conducting to ideal form, 
In soul of more than mortal privilege. 
One function, above all, of such a mind 
Had Nature shadowed there, by putting forth, 
Mid circumstances awful and sublime. 
That mutual domination which she loves 
To exert upon the face of outward things. 
So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed 
With interchangeable supremacy. 
That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive, 



i62 WORDSWORTH 

And cannot choose but feel. The power, which all 

Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus 

To bodily sense exhibits, is the express 

Resemblance of that glorious faculty 

That higher minds bear with them as their own. 

This is the very spirit in which they deal 

With the whole compass of the universe: 

They from their native selves can send abroad 

Kindred mutations; for themselves create 

A like existence ; and, whene'er it dawns 

Created for them, catch it, or are caught 

By its inevitable mastery, 

Like angels stopped upon the wing by sound 

Of harmony from Heaven's remotest spheres. 

Them the enduring and the transient both 

Serve to exalt; they build up greatest things 

From least suggestions ; ever on the watch, 

Willing to work and to be wrought upon, 

They need not extraordinary calls 

To rouse them; in a world of life they live. 

By sensible impressions not enthralled, 

But by their quickening impulse made more prompt 

To hold fit converse with the spiritual world, 

And with the generations of mankind 

Spread over time, past, present, and to come. 

Age after age, till Time shall be no more. 

Such minds are truly from the Deity, 

For they are Powers ; and hence the highest bliss 

That flesh can know is theirs — the consciousness 

Of Whom they are, habitually infused 

Through every image and through every thought, 

And all affections by communion raised 

From earth to Heaven, from human to divine ; 

Hence endless occupation for the soul, 

Whether discursive or intuitive; 

Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life, 

Emotions which best foresight need not fear. 

Most worthy then of trust when most intense. 



THE PRELUDE 163 

Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that crush 
Our hearts — if here the words of Holy Writ 
May with fit reverence be applied — that peace 
Which passeth understanding, that repose 
In moral judgments which from this pure source 
Must come, or will by man be sought in vain. 

Oh ! who is he that hath his whole life long 
Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in himself? 
For this alone is genuine liberty: 
Where is the favoured being who hath held 
That course unchecked, unerring, and untired, 
In one perpetual progress smooth and bright? — 
A humbler destiny have we retraced, 
And told of lapse and hesitating choice, 
And backward wanderings along thorny ways ; 
Yet — compassed round by mountain solitudes. 
Within whose solemn temple I received 
My earliest visitations, careless then 
Of what was given me; and which now I range, 
A meditative, oft a suffering, man — 
Do I declare — in accents which, from truth 
Deriving cheerful confidence, shall blend 
Their modulation with these vocal streams — 
That, whatsoever falls my better mind. 
Revolving with the accidents of life, 
May have sustained, that, howsoe'er misled, 
Never did I, in quest of right and wrong. 
Tamper with conscience from a private aim; 
Nor was in any public hope the dupe 
Of selfish passions; nor did ever yield 
Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits. 
But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy 
From every combination which might aid 
The tendency, too potent in itself, 
Of use and custom to bow down the soul 
Under a growing weight of vulgar sense. 



i64 WORDSWORTH 

And substitute a universe of death 

For that which moves with light and life informed, 

Actual, divine, and true. To fear and love, 

To love as prime and chief, for there fear ends, 

Be this ascribed; to early intercourse, 

In presence of sublime or beautiful forms. 

With the adverse principles of pain and joy — 

Evil, as one is rashly named by men 

Who know not what they speak. By love subsists 

All lasting grandeur, by pervading love; 

That gone, we are as dust. — Behold the fields 

In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers 

And joyous creatures; see that pair, the lamb 

And the lamb's mother, and their tender ways 

Shall touch thee to the heart : thou callest this love, 

And not inaptly so, for love it is, 

Far as it carries thee. In some green bower 

Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there 

The One who is thy choice of all the world: 

There linger, listening, gazing, with delight 

Impassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 

Unless this love by a still higher love 

Be hallowed, love that breathes not without awe ; 

Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer, 

By heaven inspired ; tliat frees from chains the soul. 

Lifted, in union with the purest, best. 

Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise 

Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's Throne. 



This spiritual love acts not nor can exist 
Without Imagination, which, in truth, 
Is but another name for absolute power 
And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
And Reason in her most exalted mood. 
This faculty hath been the feeding source 
Of our long labour: we have traced the stream 
From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard 



THE PRELUDE 165 

Its natal murmur; followed it to light 
And open day; accompanied its course 
Among the ways of Nature, for a time 
Lost sight of it bewildered and engulfed; 
Then given it greeting as it rose once more 
In strength, reflecting from its placid breast 
The works of man and face of human life; 
And lastly, from its progress have we drawn 
Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought 
Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 



Imagination having been our theme, 
So also hath that intellectual Love, 
For they are each in each, and cannot stand 
Dividually. — Here must thou be, O Man ! 
Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou here; - 
Here keepest thou in singleness thy state: 
No other can divide with thee this work; 
No secondary hand can intervene 
To fashion this ability; 'tis thine, 
The prime and vital principle is thine 
In the r cesses of thy nature, far 
From any reach of outward fellowship, 
Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid 
Here, the foundation of his future years ! 
For all that friendship, all that love can do. 
All that a darling countenance can look 
Or dear voice utter, to complete the man. 
Perfect him, made imperfect in himself. 
All shall be his : and he whose soul hath risen 
Up to the height of feeling intellect 
Shall want no humbler tenderness: his heart 
Be tender as a nursing mother's heart; 
Of female softness shall his life be full, 
Of humble cares and delicate desires. 
Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 



i66 WORDSWORTH 

Child of my parents! Sister of my soul! 
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere 
Poured out for all the early tenderness 
Which I from thee imbibed : and 'tis most true 
That later seasons owed to thee no less; 
Fori spite of thy sweet influence and the touch 
Of kindred hands that opened out the springs 
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite 
Of all that unassisted I had marked 
In life or nature of those charms minute 
That win their way into the heart by stealth, 
Still (to the very going-out of youth) 
I too exclusively esteemed that love, 
And sought that beauty which, as Milton sings, 
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down 
This over-sternness; but for thee, dear Friend! 
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood 
In her original self too confident, 
Retained too long a countenance severe; 
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds 
Familiar, and a favourite of the stars: 
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, 
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze. 
And teach the little birds to build their nests 
And warble in its chambers. At a time 
When Nature, destined to remain so long 
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
Into a second place, pleased to become 
A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 
When every day brought with it some new sense 
Of exquisite regard for common things, 
And all the earth was budding with these gifts 
Of more refined humanity, thy breath, 
Dear Sister 1 was a kind of gentler spring 
That went before my steps. Thereafter came 
One whom with thee friendship had early paired; 
She came, no more a phantom to adorn 
A moment, but an inmate of the heart, 



THE EXCURSION 167 

And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 
To penetrate the lofty and the low; 
Even as one essence of pervading light 
Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars, 
And, the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp 
Couched in the lowly grass. 



THE EXCURSION, I, 1-37, 434-970 

Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high: 

Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 

Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, 

In clearest air ascending, showed far off 

A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 

From brooding clouds; shadows that lay in spots 

Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 

Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed; 

To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 

Extends his careless limbs along the front 

Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 

A twilight of its own, an ample shade. 

Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, 

Half conscious of the soothing melody, 

With side-long eye looks out upon the scene. 

By power of that impending covert, thrown 

To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 

Far other lot. yet with good hope that soon 

Under a shade as grateful T should find 

Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 

Across a bare wide common I was toiling 

With languid steps that by the slippery turf 

Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 

The host of insects gathering round my face, 

And ever with me as I paced along. 

Upon that open moorland stood a grove. 
The wished- for port to which my course was bound. 



i68 WORDSWORTH 

Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
Spread hy a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls 
That stared upon each other ! I looked round, 
And to my wish and to my hope espied 
Him whom I sought; a Man of reverend age, 
But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
There was he seen upon the cottage bench. 
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep; 
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

So was he framed ; and such his course of life 
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquished toils. 
Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space. 
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose. 
And ere our lively greeting into peace 
Had settled " Tis," said I, " a burning day : 
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems, 
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 
Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb 
The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
Upon the public way. It was a plot 
Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 
Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed. 
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips. 
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems 
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'crleap 
The broken wall. I looked around, and there. 
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 



THE EXCURSION 169 

Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a Well 

Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 

My thirst 1 slaked, and from the cheerless spot 

Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 

Where sate the Old Man on the cottage bench; 

And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 

I yet was standing, freely to respire. 

And cool my temples in the fanning air, 

Thus did he speak. " I see around me here 

Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, 

Nor we alone, but that which each man loved 

And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 

Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon 

Even of the good is no memorial left. 

— The Poets, in their elegies and songs 

Lamenting the departed, call ti.e groves, 

They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 

And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, 

In these their invocations, with a voice 

Obedient to the strong creative power 

Of human passion. Sympathies there are 

More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 

That steal upon the meditative mind. 

And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 

And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 

One sadness, they and 1. For them a bond 

Of brotherhood is broken: time has been 

When, every day, the touch of human hand 

Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 

In mortal stillness; and they ministered 

To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 

Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 

The useless fragment of a wooden bowl. 

Green with the moss of years, and subject only 

To the soft handling of the elements: 

There let the relic lie — fond thought — vain words I 

Forgive them; — never — never did my steps 

Approach this door but she who dwelt within 



170 WORDSWORTH 

A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 

As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, 

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 

Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 

Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks. 

When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 

From that forsaken Spring : and no one came 

But he was welcome ; no one went away 

But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 

The light extinguished of her lonely hut, 

The hut itself abandoned to decay, 

And she forgotten in the quiet grave ! 



" I speak," continued he, " of One whose stock 
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
She was a woman of a steady mind. 
Tender and deep in her excess of love, 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
Of her own thoughts: by some especial care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
A being, who by adding love to peace 
Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 
The humble worth that satisfied her heart: 
Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
That he was often seated at his loom. 
In summer, ere the mower was abroad 
Among the dewy grass, — in early spring. 
Ere the last star had vanished. — They who passed 
At evening, from behind the garden fence 
Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 
After his daily work, until the light 
Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 
In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
In peace and comfort; and a pretty Boy 
Was their best hope, next to the God in Heaven. 



THE EXCURSION 171 

" Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 
A worse affliction in the plague of war; 
This happy land was stricken to the heart ! 
A Wanderer then among the cottages 
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
The hardships of that season ; many rich 
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
And of the poor did many cease to be, 
And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
Went struggling on through those calamitous years 
With cheerful hope, until the second autumn. 
When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
He lingered long; and when his strength returned, 
He found the little he had stored, to meet 
The hour of accident or crippling age, 
Was all consumed. A second Infant now 
Was added to the troubles of a time 
Laden, for them and all of their degree, 
With care and sorrow; shoals of artisans 
From ill-requited labour turned adrift 
Sought daily bread from public charity, 
They, and their wives and children — happier far 
Could they have lived as do the little birds 
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 
That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks ! 

" A sad reverse it was for him who long 
Had filled w^ith plenty, and possessed in peace, 
This lonely cottage. At his door he stood, 
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them; or with his knife 
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — 



172 WORDSWORTH 

Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty. 
He blended, where he might, the various tasks 
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
But this endured not; his good humour soon 
Became a weight in which no pleasure was : 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 
And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
And he would leave his work — and to the town, 
Without an errand, would direct his steps. 
Or wander here and there among the fields. 
One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 
And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: 
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ' Every smile,' 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
* Made my heart bleed.' " 

At this the Wanderer paused; 
And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. — 
At this still season of repose and peace, 
This hour when all things which are not at rest 
Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies 
Is filling all the air with melody; 
Why should a tear be in an Old Man's eye? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind. 
And in the weakness of humanity, 
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears. 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ? " 

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 
But, when he ended, there was in his face 
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 



THE EXCURSION 173 

That for a little time it stole away- 
All recollection, and that simple tale 
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
A while on trivial things we held discourse, 
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
Her homely tale with such familiar power. 
With such an active countenance, an eye 
So busy, that the things of which he spake 
Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, 
A heart- felt chillness crept alon^/ my veins. 
I rose; and, having left the t)ieez> shade, 
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun. 
That had not cheered me long — ere, looking round 
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned. 
And begged of the Old Man that, for my sake. 
He would resume his story. 

He replied, 
" It were a wantonness, and would demand 
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 
A momentary pleasure, never marked 
By reason, barren of all future good. 
But we have known that there is often found 
In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
A power to virtue friendly ; were 't not so, 
I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
An idle dreamer ! 'Tis a common tale. 
An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
In bodily form. — But without jrther bidding 
I will proceed. 

" While thus it fared with them. 
To whom this cottage, till those hapless years. 
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
To travel in a country far remote; 



174 WORDSWORTH 

And when these lofty elms once more appeared. 

What pleasant expectations lured me on 

O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I reached 

The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 

But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me 

A little while; then turned her head away 

Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a chair. 

Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 

Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 

She rose from off her seat, and then, — O Sir ! 

I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : — 

With fervent love, and with a face of grief 

Unutterably helpless, and a look 

That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired 

If I had seen her husband. As she spake 

A strange surprise and fear came to my heart. 

Nor had I power to answer ere she told 

That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 

He left his house: two wretched days had past, 

And on the third, as wistfully she raised 

Her head from off her pillow^, to look forth. 

Like one in trouble, for returning light. 

Within her chamber-casement vshe espied 

A folded paper, lying as if placed 

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 

She opened — found no writing, but beheld 

Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 

Silver and gold. — ' I shuddered at the sight/ 

Said Margaret, * for I knew it was his hand 

Which placed it there: and ere that day was ended, 

That long and anxious day ! I learned from one 

Sent hither by my Husband to impart 

The heavy news, — that he had joined a troop 

Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 

— He left me thus — he could not gather heart 

To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 

That I should follow with my babes, and sink 

Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' 



THE EXCURSION 175 

" This tale did Margaret tell with many tears : 
And, when she ended, I had little power 
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
To cheer us both: — but long we had not talked 
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts. 
And with a brighter eye she looked around 
As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring; 
I left her busy with her garden tools; 
And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd. 
And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
With tender cheerfulness; and with a voice 
That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 

" I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
Through many a wood, and many an open ground, 
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall; 
My best companions now the driving winds, 
And now the * trotting brooks ' and whispering trees, 
And now the music of my own sad steps, 
With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 
And disappeared. 

"I journeyed back this way, 
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 
Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass, 
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 
Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, 
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 



i;6 WORDSWORTH 

Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 

Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 

And strolled into her garden. It appeared 

To lag behind the season, and had lost 

Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 

Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er 

The paths they used to deck : — Carnations, once 

Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 

For the peculiar pains they had required, 

Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 

The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, 

Had twined about her two small rows of pease, 

And dragged them to the earth. 

"Ere this an hour 
Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps; 
A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought. 
He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
The sun was sinking in the west; and now 
I sate with sad impatience. From within 
Her solitary infant cried aloud; 
Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 
The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
The longer I remained more desolate: 
And, looking round me, now I first ol)served 
The corner i':ones, on either side the porch, 
With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er 
With tufts and hairs* of wool, as if the sheep, 
That fed upon the Common, thither came 
Familiarly: and found a couching-place 
Even at her threshold. Deeper. shadows fell 
From these tall elms; — the Cottage-clock struck eight 
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
Her face was pale and thin^ — her figure, too. 
Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
* It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late. 



THE EXCURSION 177 

And, sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need 
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
She told me — interrupting not the work 
Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
That she had parted with her elder child ; 
To a kind master on a distant farm 
Now happily apprenticed. — * I perceive 
You look at me, and you have cause; to-day 
I have been travelling far ; and many days 
About the fields I wander, knowing this 
Only, that what I seek I cannot find; 
And so I waste my time: for I am changed; 
And to myself,' said she, ' have done much wrong 
And to this helpless Infant. I have slept 
Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears 
Have flowed as if my body were not such 
As others are ; and I could never die. 
But I am now in mind and in my heart 
More easy ; and I hope/ said she, ' that God 
Will give me patience to endure the things 
Which I behold at home.' 

"It would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her; Sir, I feel 
The story linger in my heart; I fear 
'Tis long and tedious : but my spirit clings 
To that poor Woman : so familiarly 
Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
And presence, and so deeply do I feel 
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
A momentary trance comes over me; 
And to myself I seem to muse on One 
By sorrow laid asleep ; — or borne away, 
A human being destined to awake 
To human life, or something very near 
To human life, when he shall come again 
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her : evermore 



178 WORDSWORTH 

Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast ; 

And, when she at her table gave me food, 

She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 

Her body was subdued. In every act 

Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 

The careless stillness of a thinking mind 

Self -occupied; to which all outward things 

Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed. 

But yet no motion of the breast was seen. 

No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 

We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 

I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 

" Ere my departure, to her care I gave. 
For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 
Which with a look of welcome she received; 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
With the best hope and comfort I could give ; 
She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
Methought she did not thank me. 

" I returned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
I found her sad and drooping; she had learned 
No tidings of her husband; if he lived. 
She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead. 
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
In person and appearance; but her house 
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; 
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 
Had been piled up against the corner panes 
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 



THE EXCURSION 179 

Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
And sighed among its playthings. Once again 
I turned towards the garden gate, and saw, 
More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass : 
No ridges there appeared of clear black mould. 
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, 
It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, 
Which had been twined about the slender stem 
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root, 
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep, 
— Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, 
And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house 
Together we returned; and she enquired 
If I had any hope: — but for her babe 
And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
She had no wish to live, that she must die 
Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung 
Upon the self-same nail; his very staff 
Stood undisturbed behind the door. 

"And when. 
In bleak December, I retraced this way. 
She told me that her little babe was dead, 
And she was left alone. She now, released 
From her maternal cares, had taken up 
The employment common through these wilds, and gained, 
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself: 
And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy 
To give her needful help. That very time 
Most willingly she put her work aside, 
And walked with me along the miry road, 



i8o WORDSWORTH 

Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort 
That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
Our final parting; for from that time forth 
Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
Into this tract again. 

"Nine tedious years; 
From their first separation, nine long years, 
She lingered in unquiet widowhood; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, 
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day; 
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 
Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 
Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its grey line; 
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread 
With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
A man whose garments showed the soldier's red. 
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voice 
Made many a fond enquiry; and when they. 
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 
That bars the traveller's road, she often stood. 
And when a stranger horseman came, the latch 
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully : 
Most happy, if, from ought discovered there 
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 
Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand, 



THE EXCURSION i8i 

At the first nipping of October frost, 

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 

Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 

Through the long winter, reckless and alone; 

Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain. 

Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps 

Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day 

Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind; 

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 

Have parted hence; and still that length of road. 

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 

Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, 

In sickness she remained ; and here she died, 

Last human tenant of these ruined walls ! " 

The Old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved; 
From that low bench, rising instinctively 
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
To thank him for the tale which he had told. 
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall, 
Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it seemed 
To comfort me while with a brother's love 
I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
At length towards the Cottage I returned 
Fondly, — and traced, with interest more mild. 
That secret spirit of humanity 
Which, mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
Of nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
And silent overgrowings still survived. 
The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 
" My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given. 
The purposes of wisdom ask no more; 
Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read 
The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
I well remember that those very plumes. 
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 



i82 WORDSWORTH 

By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
As once I passed, did to my heart convey 
So still an image of tranquillity, 
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 
That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
The passing shows of Being leave behind, 
Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 
Where meditation was. I turned away, 
And v^^alked along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
We sate on that low bench : and now we felt. 
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies. 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff: 
Together casting then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ; 
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
A village-inn, — our evening resting-place. 



APPENDIX OF ILLUSTRATIVE PASSAGES 



^^- 



FRAGA^EN'f FROM THE RECLUSE 

This fragment is printed here because of Arnold's numerous 
citations from it. For its connection with the intended 
poem of which it was to be a part, see the note on page 155. 
This passage from the Recluse is given by Wordsworth in 
his introduction to The Excursion (1814) as " a kind of 
prospectus of the design and scope of the whole poem." 
It has a definite value to the student of Wordsworth, how- 
ever, as presenting compactly and clearly and with some 
poetical felicity the dignity of his poetical aims. 

On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed; 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
The good and evil of our mortal state. 
— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come. 
Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 
Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself — 
I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
Of blessed consolations in distress; 
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread; 
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 
To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
Of that Intelligence which governs all — 
I sing:— "fit audience let me find though few!" 

" So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard — 
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell in highest Heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
18s 



i86 APPENDIX 

To which the Heaven of Heavens is but a veil. 

All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 

That ever was put forth in personal form — 

Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 

Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones — 

I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 

The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 

Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 

By help of dreams — can breathe such fear and awe 

As fall upon us often when we look 

Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 

My haunt, and the main region of my song. 

— Beauty — a living Presence of the earth 

Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 

Which craft of dehcate Spirits hath composed 

From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 

Pitches her tents before me as I move, 

An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and groves 

Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old 

Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should they be 

A history only of departed things, 

Or a mere fiction of what never was? 

For the discerning intellect of Man, 

When wedded to this goodly universe 

In love and holy passion, shall find these 

A simple produce of the common day. 

— I, long before the blissful hour arrives. 

Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 

Of this great consummation ; — and, by words 

Which speak of nothing more than what we are. 

Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 

Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 

To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 

How exquisitely the individual Mind 

(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 

Of the whole species) to the external World 

Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 

Theme this but little heard of among men — 

The external World is fitted to the Mind ; 

And the creation (by no lower name 

Can it be called) which they with blended might 

Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 

— Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 

Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes 

And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 

Of madding passions mutually inflamed; 

Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 



APPENDIX 187 

Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 

Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 

Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 

Within the walls of cities — may these sounds 

Have their authentic comment ; that even these 

Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 

Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspir'st 

The human Soul of universal earth, 

Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess 

A metropolitan temple in the hearts 

Of mighty poets : upon me bestow 

A gift of genuine insight; that my Song 

With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 

Shedding benignant influence, and secure. 

Itself, from all malevolent effect 

Of those mutations that extend their sway 

Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 

I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 

Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 

Contemplating; and who, and what he was — 

The transitory Being that beheld 

This vision ; when, and where, and how he lived ; — 

Be not this labour useless. If such theme 

May sort with highest objects, then — dread Power! 

Whose gracious favor is the primal source 

Of all illumination, — may my Life 

Express the image of a better time. 

More wise desires,^ and simpler manners ; — nurse 

My Heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 

Be with me; — so shall thy unfailing love 

Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! " 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER 

Is comparing this poem with Lucy Gray, Arnold speaks of it 
as a "failure" (See page 30). 

One morning (raw it M^as and wet — 

A foggy day in winter time) 

A Woman on the road I met, 

Not old, though something past her prime: 

Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. 



[88 APPENDIX 

The ancient spirit is not dead ; 

Old times, thought I, are breathing there; 

Proud was I that my country bred 

Such strength, a dignity so fair : 

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate ; 

I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. 

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
" What is it," said I, *' that you bear. 
Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
Protected from this cold damp air?" 
She answered, soon as she the question heard, 
"A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." 

And, thus continuing, she said, 

*' I had a Son, who many a day 

Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; 

In Denmark he was cast away: 

And I have traveled weary miles to see 

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. 

"The bird and cage they both were his: 

'Twas my Son's bird ; and neat and trim 

He kept it: many voyages 

The singing-bird had gone with him ; 

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind ; 

From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. 

" He to a fellow-lodger's care 

Had left it, to be watched and fed, 

And pipe its song in safety; — there 

I found it when my Son was dead; 

And now, God help me for my little wit ! 

I bear it with me. Sir; — he took so much delight in it." 

PETER BELL 

(Selected passages) 

This poem, composed in 1798, and published in 1819, is the one 
of Wordsworth's which above all others exhibits his pecu- 
liar lack of critical perspective regarding his own writings. 
Most of his followers have admitted it to be a " mistake." 
Its exaggerated simplicity of theme and style, and its ex- 
cessive moral sentiment have frequently been parodied — 
even by Shelley. It must be kept in mind that the narra- 
tive is quite seriously meant : there is no intentional comic 
effect in any of the stanzas following. 



APPENDIX 189 

He roved among the vales and streams, 241-250 

In the green wood and hollow dell; 

They were his dwellings night and day,— 

But nature ne'er could find the way 

Into the heart of Peter Bell. 

In vain, through every changeful year, 
Did Nature lead him as before; 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more. 



Within the breast of Peter Bell 271-305 

These silent raptures found no place; 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-cry pursued, 
As ever ran a felon's race. 

Of all that lead a lawless life, 

Of all that love their lawless lives, 

In city or in village small, 

He was the wildest far of all ; — 

He had a dozen wedded wives. 

Nay, start not!— wedded wives— and twelve! 
But how one wife could e'er come near him, 
In simple truth I cannot tell; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

Though Nature could not touch his heart 
By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once that Peter Bell and she 
Had often been together. 

A savage wildness round him hung 
As of a dweller out of doors ; _ 
In his whole figure and his mien 
A savage character was seen 
Of mountains and of dreary moors. 

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 
Which solitary Nature feeds 
'Mid summer storms or winter's ice. 
Had Peter joined whatever vice 
The cruel city breeds. 



19© APPENDIX 

His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; 
Of courage you saw httle there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 



Across the deep and quiet spot 
Is Peter driving through the grass — 
And now has reached the skirting trees; 
When, turning round his head, he sees 
A solitary Ass. 

" A prize ! " cries Peter — but he first 
Must spy about him far and near : 
There's not a single house in sight. 
No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
Peter, you need not fear I 

There's nothing to be seen but woods, 
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam, 
And this one Beast, that from the bed 
Of the green meadow hangs his head 
Over the silent stream. 

His head is with a halter bound; 
The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
Upon the Creature's back, and plied 
With ready heels his shaggy side ; 
But still the Ass his station kept. 

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
Would have pulled up an iron ring; 
But still the heavy-headed Thing 
Stood just as he had stood before! 

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
" There is some plot against me laid ; " 
Once more the little meadow-ground 
And all the hoary cliffs around 
He cautiously surveyed. 

All, all is silent — rocks and woods, 
All still and silent— far and nearl 
Only the Ass, with motion dull. 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turns round his long left ear. 



APPENDIX 191 

Thought Peter, What can mean all this? 
Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
— Once more the Ass, with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turned round his long left ear. 

Suspicion ripened into dread; 
Yet, with deliberate action slow, 
His staff high-raising, in the pride 
Of skill, upon the sounding hide 
He dealt a sturdy blow. 

The poor Ass staggered with the shock; 
And then, as if to take his ease. 
In quiet, uncomplaining mood, 
Upon the spot where he had stood, 
Dropped gently down upon his knees; 

As gently on his side he fell ; 
And by the river's brink did lie ; 
And while he lay like one that mourned, 
The patient Beast on Peter turned 
His shining hazel eye. 

'Twas but one mild, reproachful look, 
A look more tender than severe; 
And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
He turned the eye-ball in his head 
Towards the smooth river deep and clear. 

Upon the Beast the sapling rings; 

His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred; 

He gave a groan, and then another, 

Of that which went before the brother. 

And then he gave a third. 

All by the moonlight river side 
He gave three miserable groans ; 
And not till now hath Peter seen 
How gaunt the Creature is, — how lean 
And sharp his staring bones. 



His scorn returns — his hate revives; 496-500 

He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 
With malice — that again takes flight; 
For in the pool a startling sight 
Meets him, among the inverted trees. 



192 APPENDIX 

Never did pulse so quickly throb, 516-530 

And never heart so loudly panted; 
He looks, he cannot choose but look; 
Like someone reading in a book — 
A book that is enchanted. 

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Belli 
He will be turned to iron soon, 
Meet statue for the court of Fear I 
His hat is up— and every hair 
Bristles, and v^hitens in the moon I 

He looks, he ponders, looks again; 

He sees a motion, hears a groan; 

His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 

He gives a loud and frightened shriek, 

And back he falls, as if his life were flown! 

(Peter recovers, to find the face of the ass's dead master 
staring at him from the water.) 

Thought he, That is the face of one 551-565 

In his last sleep securely bound 1 

So toward the stream his head he bent. 

And downward thrust his staff, intent 

The river's depth to sound. 

Now — like a tempest-shattered bark, 
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies. 
And in a moment to the verge 
Is lifted of a foaming surge- 
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 

His staring bones all shake with joy, 
And close by Peter's side he stands : 
While Peter o'er the river bends, 
The little Ass his neck extends, 
And fondly licks his hands. 

(Peter draws the body to the bank.) 

The meagre shadow that looks on — ^ 586-605 

What would he now? what is he doing? 
His sudden fit of joy is flown,— 
He on his knees hath laid him down, 
As if he were his grief renewing; 



APPENDIX 193 

But no — that Peter on his back 
Must mount, he shows well as he can : 
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
I'll do what he would have me do, 
In pity to this poor drowned man. 

With that resolve he boldly mounts 
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass; 
And then, without a moment's stay. 
That earnest Creature turned away. 
Leaving the body on the grass. 

Intent upon his faithful watch, 

The Beast four days and nights had passed; 

A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, 

And there the Ass four days had been. 

Nor ever once did break his fast. 

(The ass carries Peter along the road to his master's house; 
Peter, meanwhile, through the day's sombre experiences and 
the sounds and mysteries of the night, being brought to a 
strong conviction of his misdeeds. The sight of the orphaned 
family to which he brings his sad news completes his trans- 
formation.) 

— Here ends my Tale: for in a trice 1121-1135 

Arrived a neighbor with his horse ; 
Peter went forth with him straightway; 
And, with due care, ere break of day. 
Together they brought back the Corse. 

And many years did this poor Ass, 
Whom once it was my luck to see 
Cropping the shrubs of Leming Lane, 
Help by his labor to maintain 
The Widow and her family. 

And Peter Bell, who, till that night, 
Had been the wildest of his clan, 
Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly. 
And after ten months' melancholy. 
Became a good and honest man. 



CHRONOLOGY OF ARNOLD'S LIFE 

Born 1822, Laleham, England. Son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, 
Master of Rugby. 

1837-1841. School at Rugby. 

1841-1844. Balliol College, Oxford. Exhibited a strong in- 
terest in the reading and writing of poetry. 

1747-1851. Private secretary to Lord Lansdowne, President 
of the Council. 

1849. The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems. 

1851. Appointed Inspector of Schools, Arnold held this posi- 

tion until 1886, the demands of the work in travel, 
lecturing, etc., being very exacting throughout the 
greater part of his life. 

1852. Empedocles on Etna. 

1853. Poems, First Series; 1855, Second Series. 

1857. Elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford. This distin- 
guished position he filled for ten years. 
Critical and literary works of the earlier period : 
1861. On Translating Homer. 
1865. Essays in Criticism (First Series). 
1867. On the Study of Celtic Literature. 
1869. Culture and Anarchy, an important and penetrating 
series of essays on social tendencies. The introduc- 
tory essay, Sweetness and Light, is probably the best- 
known statement of Arnold's faith in culture as a 
means of social salvation. 
Writings on religion and the Church : 

1870. Saint Paul and Protestantism. 
1873. Literature and Dogma. 
1875. God and the Bible. 
1883-1884. First lecture tour in America, providing the occa- 
sion and the material for: 
1885. Discourses in America, followed by 
1888. Civilization in the United States. 
1886. Tour on the Continent to study free educational sys- 
tems. The closing act of his career as educator. 
1888. Essays in Criticism, Second Series. A series of critical 
essays, including The Study of Poetry and a group of 
studies of English poets, among them Wordsworth, 
which was originally issued as the preface to his se- 
lections from Wordsworth in 1879. 
Died 1888. 

195 



CHRONOLOGY OF THE LIFE OF WORDSWORTH 

Born Cockermouth, Cumberland, England, 1770, 

1778. Grammar School at Hawkshead. 

1787-1791. St. John's College, Cambridge. 

Toured on the Continent with a friend in 1790; visited 
London in 1791, after having seen the first stages of 
the French Revolution. 

1791. Trip to France, partly for the study of the language, 
but more from sympathy with the political struggles 
of the French. His Hfe here was touched vitally by 
the episode of an attachment at Blois, which has only 
recently been drawn from purposed obscurity. 

1793. First publication : An Evening Walk, and Descriptive 
Sketches. 

1795. Settled with his sister Dorothy at Racedown, and began 
to look upon poetry as a career. His attitude toward 
the French Revolution began to change as he saw it 
grow in atrocity and stimulate French national pride. 

1797. Intimacy with Coleridge began. 

1798. Publication of the Lyrical Ballads, in collaboration with 

Coleridge ; second edition, with critical introduction, 
1800. This volume contains many of the most sig- 
nificant poems of both writers. 
1798-1799. Spent a year in Germany, near Coleridge. 

1799. Dove Cottage, Grasmere, a small but beautiful place 

in his native Lake Country. 
1802. Married Mary Hutchinson, an intimate of his sister's 

from his boyhood. Five children were born to him 

from 1803 to 1 810. 
1805. Finished The Prelude; not published until 1850. 
1807. Poems, in two volumes (first collected edition). 
1810. Moved to Grasmere, after Dove Cottage was outgrown 

by his young family. 

1813. Final residence at Rydal Mount, after the death of two 

of his children. Became Distributor of Stamps for 
Westmoreland. 

1814. The Excursion published. 

1815 on. Growing conservatism in political convictions and in 
his writing; increased interest in the sonnet. His 
literary and social acquaintance expanded, and he be- 
came friendly with Keats, Lamb, and Leigh Hunt, 
among others. 

196 



CHRONOLOGY OF WORDSWORTH'S LIFE 197 

1830. Beginning of public acceptance. Rydal Mount became 
a centre of pilgrimage for his admirers. 

1842. Resigned his position in the Stamp-Office, with a pen- 

sion. 

1843. Appointed Laureate on the death of Southey. 
Died 1850. 



NOTES 

(Heavy numerals refer to page; light ones to reference number) 
INTRODUCTION 

xii, I. Heroic Couplet. Iambic lines of five feet, rhymed 
in pairs. The example below is from Pope's Rape of the 
Lock. 

Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
To taste a while the pleasures of a court ; 
In various talk th' instructive hours they passed, 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
One speaks the glory of the British Queen 
And one describes a charming Indian screen; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; 
At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat. 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

xii, 2. Wordsworth's own comment upon and illustration 
of this point may be found in the Appendix to the third edition 
of Lyrical Ballads, 1802: 

" Perhaps in no way, by positive example, could more 
easily be given a notion of what I mean by the phrase 
poetic diction than by referring to a comparison between 
the metrical paraphrase which we have of passages in the 
Old and New Testament, and those passages as they exist 
in our common translation. ... By way of immediate 
example, take the following of Dr. Johnson : 

* Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes. 
Observe her labours. Sluggard, and be wise; 
No stern command, no monitory voice. 
Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice; 
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away 
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day; 
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain, 
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain. 
199 



200 NOTES 

How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
Unnerve thy vigor, and enchain thy powers? 
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, 
And soft solicitation courts repose, 
Amid the drowsy charms of dull delight, 
Year chases year with unremitted flight, 
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow, 
Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambush'd foe/ 

From this hubbub of words, pass to the original. ' Go to 
the Ant, thou Sluggard; consider her ways and be wise: 
which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her 
meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the har- 
vest. How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard ? When wilt 
thou arise out of thy sleep? Yet a little sleep, a little 
slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep. So shall 
thy poverty come as one that traveleth, and thy want as 
an armoured man.' " 



ARNOLD'S ESSAY ON WORDSWORTH 

2, I. Rydal Mount. Wordsworth's residence from 1813 
until his death; in his later years a centre of pilgrimage for 
his admirers. 

2, 2. Tennyson published his Poems in Two Volumes in 
1842. 

3, 3. Francis Turner Palgrave's Golden Treasury of 
Songs and Lyrics, compiled witht Tennyson's aid, and pub- 
lished in 1861, 

3, 4. Joseph Ernest Renan, 1823-1892. French critic and 
historian of Christianity from the skeptical point of view. 
Arnold held his intelligent and dispassionate criticism in very 
high admiration. 

3, 5- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749- 1832. Poet, 
dramatist, critic, and literary philosopher. The greatest name 
in German literature, and an important influence in the Euro- 
pean romanticism of the period. 

4, 6. Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, who subjugated 
the Hebrew nation. See the book of Jeremiah. 

4, 7. Sir Isaac Newton, 1 642-1 727. Mathematician and 
physicist who formulated the law of gravitation. 

4, 8. Charles Robert Darwin, 1809-1882. Naturalist, and 
author of the Origin of Species (1859), the first complete and 
judicial statement of the theory of evolution. 

5, 9. Anti-Gallican — anti-French. 

5, 10. Pierre Corneille, 1606-1684. French dramatist of 
the classic seventeenth century. 



NOTES 201 

5, II. Victor Hugo, 1802-1885. French novelist, poet, and 
dramatist, the leader of the romantic school in France. 

5, 12. Samson Agonistes. A sacred drama of severely 
classic type, Milton's last poetical work. 

5, 13. Amphictyonic Court. Arnold refers to the council 
of the Delphic Amphictyony, scarcely a court, and certainly 
not a court of final appeal. 

8, 14. This scheme of classification Wordsworth first em- 
ployed in the Collective Edition of his works which appeared 
in 1815. 

10, 15. In the volume On Translating Homer. 

10, 16. *' On man, on nature, and on human life." Opening 
line of the fragment of The Recluse. See page 185. 

11, 17. Frangois Marie Arouet Voltaire, 1694- 1778. 
French skeptic, philosopher and poet. A portion of Voltaire's 
early years was spent in English literary society. 

II, 18. Paradise Lost, XI, 549-550. 

11, 19. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 

12, 20. The Tempest, IV, i. 

12, 21. More frequently spelt Omar Khayyam, A Persian 
poet who flourished about the year 1200. No single passage 
in Edward Fitzgerald's loose translation of Omar's Rubaiyat 
presents exactly the sentiment of Arnold's quoted phrase. The 
following quatrain approximates it: 

" And this I know : whether the one True Light 
Kindle to Love,^ or wrath-consume me quite, 
One flash of it within the Tavern caught 
Better than in the Temple lost outright." 

13, 22. Epictetus. Phrygian stoic philosopher of the first 
century a.d. 

13, 2Z. Theophile Gautier, 1811-1872. French romantic 
lyric poet. 

14, 24. " Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love and 
hope" . . . From the fragment of The Recluse, lines 14- 
18. See page 185. 

14, 25. " Quique pii vates." . . . Those who were reverent 
prophets, speaking things worthy of Apollo. 

14, 26. [Sir] Leslie Stephen, 1832-1904. English editor 
and critic. 

i5» 27. Joseph Butler, 1692-1752. Bishop o£ Durham. 
Author of The Analogy of Religion (1736). 

15, 28. Excursion, TV, 73-76. 

16, 29. Excursion, IV. 10-17. 

16, 30. Ode on Intimations of Immortality. See page 147. 
16, 31. Thucydides, 471-401 b.c. Greek historian of the 
Peloponnesian War. 



202 NOTES 

17, 2>^. Excursion, IX, 292-302. 

18, 2)3' Line 18 of the fragment from The Recluse. See 
page 185. 

18, 34. The Sailor's Mother. See appendix, page 187. 

18, 35. Lucy Gray. See page 30. 

19, 36. Francis, Lord Jeffrey, 1773-1850. One of the 
founders of the Edinburgh Review, and for many years its 
editor. A vigorous and bitter critic of most of the romantic 
poets of the Georgian period. 

19, 37. Macbeth, III, 2. 

19, 38. Paradise Lost, VII, 23-24. 

19, 39. Fragment from The Recluse, 78-80. See page 187. 

20, 40. Laodamia. See page 93. 
20, 41. Michael. See page 77. 

20, 42. From Burns*s A Bard's Epitaph. 

21, 43. Resolution and Independence. See page 47. 
21, 44. The Fountain. See page 2>7- 

21, 45. The Highland Reaper. See The Solitary Reap 
page 113. 

21, 46. Arnold refers to his own Poems of Wordsworth, 

1879. 

21, 47. Margaret, printed by Arnold as a separate narra- 
tive, is in the present volume printed as an excerpt from the 
first book of The Excursion. See page 167. 

22, 48. Peter Bell, published in 1819. See appendix, pages 

188-193. 

22, 49. Ecclesiastical Sonnets. A sequence of sonnets on 
the history of Christianity and its ritual in England, pub- 
lished in 1822. 

22, 50. To the Spade of a Friend. Neither this nor the 
Thanksgiving Ode is printed in the present volume. 

22, 51. Vaudracour and Julia. A romantic story with a 
situation of considerable emotional intensity, but narrated 
with tedious circumstantiality and great excess of sentiment. 
The accumulation of tragic details is also harsh, although 
Wordsworth vouches for the facts of the story. 

Vaudracour, son of an aristocratic house, entertains an 
overwhelming passion for the beautiful, sensitive, but 
plebeian Julia. Vaudracour's father will not tolerate the 
idea of their marriage. Through the violence and hope- 
lessness of their love, Julia, "wanting yet the name of 
Vv^ife, carries about her for a secret grief the promise of 
a mother." Julia is sent away by her parents for conceal- 
ment, and Vaudracour separated from her by force, but 
not until he has killed two of the men sent at his father's 
instance to arrest him. As Julia's parents realize the im- 



NOTES 203 

possibility of the marriage, they send her to a convent. 
After a vain attempt to have their son acknowledged by 
his family, Vaudracour retires to a life of solitude, sinking 
into silent imbecility after the early death of the infant. 



SHORTER NARRATIVES AND POEMS 

39, I. To Joanna. Addressed to Joanna Hutchinson, sister 
of Wordsworth's wife. 

42, 2. This poem has been called, though not by Words- 
worth, The Fir Grove Path. 

45, 3. The visitant was John Wordsworth, a younger 
brother, who, as master of the Earl of Abergavenny, was 
drowned at sea in 1805. 

49, 4. Thomas Chatterton, poet, born in 1752, who killed 
himself in poverty at the age of eighteen. His "Rowley 
Poems " he gave to the world as authentic ancient romances, 
but they were soon discovered to be of his own composition. 

49, 5. Burns. 

50, 6. Leeches were gathered for medical purposes. The 
use of leeches for drawing " superfluous " blood through the 
fikin was an old and long established fallacy in medical 
practice. 

52, 7. Yarrow Unvisited (1803) and Yarrow Visited 
(1814) were followed by an inferior poem. Yarrow Revisited, 
in 1834, commemorating a day spent with Sir Walter Scott. 



LONGER NARRATIVES 

93, I. The classic legend of Laodamia underwent changes 
in Wordsworth's handling after it was published. The version 
here given is the original one of 1815. In the third collected 
edition of Wordsworth's works (1827) Laodamia's passion is 
regarded as a crime, and she is condemned 

" To wander in a grosser clime 
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet mid unfading bowers." 

In the next collected edition (1832) this sentence is appar- 
ently made only temporary ; for she is 

"Doomed to wear out her appointed time 
Apart from happy ghosts "... 



204 NOTES 

Protesilaos, the husband of Laodamia, was one of the leaders 
of the Greeks against Troy. Knowing that the oracle had 
promised victory to the side on which the first victim should 
fall, he threw himself into the battle at the landing of the 
Greeks, in order to insure conquest for his countrymen. 

95, 2. Parcel'. The Fates — the three sisters who spun the 
thread of human destiny. 

95> 3' Erebus. The lower regions. 

LYRICS 

loi, I. " Strange Fits of Passion have I known." This 
poem, with the three following, are the so-called "Lucy 
poems." It is now generally conceded that there was no 
original for Lucy in actual life. 

104, 2. Emmeline. Wordsworth's sister Dorothy, toward 
whom he felt an unusually strong affection and spiritual in- 
debtedness. See the Lines written above Tintern Abbey (page 
122). Laura is similarly used as a pseudonym for his 
daughter Dora, and Edward for his oldest child, Johnnie. It 
will be seen that the pseudonyms all correspond in rhythm 
and accent to the names which they represent. 

114, 3. "She was a phantom of delight" was said by 
Wordsworth to have been written upon "his dear wife." 

117, 4. To . No doubt addressed to the poet's 

daughter Dora. 

118, 5. The second stanza of this poem To a Skylark was 
omitted by Wordsworth in the 1845 edition of his works, 
having been transferred to another poem — A Morning Ex- 
ercise. 

^.EFLECTIVE AND DIDACTIVE POEMS 

121, I. " There was a Boy." This poem appears also as a 
passage in the first book of The Prelude. 

126, 2. Influence of Natural Objects. This poem also 
forms part of the first book of The Prelude. 

128, 3. Wordsworth notes that "many elements of the 
character here portrayed were found in my brother John, who 
perished by shipwreck. . . . He often expressed his regret, 
after the war had continued some time, that he had not 
chosen the Naval, instead of the East India Company's 
service." 

SONNETS 

135, I. Proteus. The "old man of the sea." Shepherd 
of Neptune's flocks (the seals). 



NOTES 205 

13s, 2. Triton. Son of Neptune, at the blowing of whose 
horn the waves were calmed. 

137. 3- This, with_ the preceding and the four following 
sonnets, was written in Wordsworth's dejection over the con- 
quests of Napoleon and over England's preoccupation with 
the " politics of trade " and indifference to the moral issues 
in the European struggle. But see his fine apology in the 
sonnet on page 139. 

137, 4. By Napoleon, in 1800. The " voice of the sea " is 
of course England, for whose moral integrity as well as 
political safety Wordsworth was concerned. 

140, 5. His second daughter, Catherine, who died a child 
of four. 

140, 6. " That Adventurer" — Napoleon. 



ODES 

143, I. "Jam non consilio bonus" . . . Upright not 
through precept, but constrained thereto by practice; not so 
much that I may be able to act rightly, but that I may be 
unable to act unless rightly. 

144, 2. This stanza appeared in the original poem, in 1807, 
but was omitted from all subsequent editions. 



INDEX 



Titles in Roman Capitals; first lines in Lower Case 



A flock of sheep that lei- 
surely pass by, 134 

A Rock there is whose 
homely front, 119 

A simple child, 23 

A slumber did my spirit 
seal, 104 

Admonition, 134 

Affliction of Margaret, 45 

Amid the smoke of cities did 
you pass, 39 

An age hath been when 
Earth was proud, 145 

And is this — Yarrow ? — this 
the stream, 54 

Anecdote for Fathers, 25 

At the corner of Wood 
Street, when daylight ap- 
pears, 99 

Behold her, single in the 

field, 113 
Behold, within the leafy 

shade, 104 
Beneath these fruit-trees 

boughs that shed, 109 
Brothers, The, 78 
Butterfly, To a, 108 



Daffodils (popular title), 115 
Daisy, To the, 106 
Duty, Ode to, 142 

Early Spring, Lines Writ- 
ten IN, 100 

Earth has not anything to 
show more fair, 136 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of 
the sky!, 118 

Evening Voluntary, 131 

Excursion, Passages from 
the, 167 

Fair Star of Evening, splen- 
dour of the west, 136 

Fir-Grove Path, The, 42 

Five years have passed ; five 
summers with the length, 122 

Fountain, The, 37 

From Stirling Castle we had 
seen, 52 

Green Linnet, The, 109 

Happy Warrior, Character 

of the, 128 
Highland Girl at Inver- 

sneyde. To a, hi 



Character of the Happy I am not one who much or 



Warrior, 128 

Composed by the Seaside 
Near Calais, 136 

Composed upon Westmin- 
ster Bridge, 136 

Cuckoo, To the, 108 



oft delight, 139 
I have a boy of five years 

old, 25 
I heard a thousand blended 

notes, 100 
I met Louisa in the shade, 105 



207 



208 



INDEX 



I traveled among unknown 
men, 102 

I wandered lonely : > a 
cloud, 115 

I watch, and long have 
watched, with calm re- 
gret, 141 

If from the public way you 
turn your steps, 65 

If Nature, for a favourite 
child, 34 

In the sweet shire of Car- 
digan, 27 

Influence of Natural Ob- 
jects, 126 

Intimations of Immortal- 
ity, Ode on, 147 

It is a beauteous evening, 
calm and free, 135 

It seems a day, 32 

I've watched you now a full 
half-hour, 108 

Joanna, To, 39 

Laodamia, 93 

Leech-Gatherer, The, 47 

Lines Composed Above Tin- 
tern Abbey, 122 

Lines Written in Early 
Spring, 100 

London, 1802, 138 

Look at the fate of summer 
flowers, 117 

Look now on that Adven- 
turer who hath paid, 140 

Louisa, 105 

Lucy Gray, 30 

Lycoris, Ode to, 145 

Matthew, 34 

Michael, 65 

Milton ! Thou shouldst be 

living at this hour, 138 
Most sweet it is with un- 

uplifted eyes, 141 
My heart leaps up when I 

behold, 107 



Natural Objects, Influence 

OF, 126 
Not in the lucid intervals of 

life, 131 
Nuns fret not at their 

convent's narrow room, 

133 
Nutting, 32 

O blithe New-comer! I have 
heard, 108 

O Friend ! I know not which 
way I must look, 138 

O Nightingale, thou surely 
art, 117 

Ode on Intimations or Im- 
mortality, 147 

Ode to Duty, 142 j 

Ode to Lycoris, 145 

Oft had I heard of Lucy 
Gray, 30 

On the Extinction of the 
Venetian Republic, 137 

Once did She hold the gor- 
geous East in fee, 137 

One morning, raw it was and 
wet, 187 

Personal Talk, 139 

Peter Bell, 188 

Prelude, Passages from 

the, 155 
Primrose of the Rock, 

The, 119 

Recluse, Fragment from 
The, 185 

Resolution and Independ- 
ence, 47 

Reverie of Poor Susan, 
The, 99 

Ruth, 57 

Sailor's Mother, The, 187 
She dwelt among the un- 
trodden ways, 102 I 



INDEX 



209 



She was a Phantom of de- 
light, 114 

Simon Lee, the Old Hunts- 
man, 27 

Skylark, To a, 116, 118 

Sleep, To, 134 

Solitary Reaper, The, 113 

Sparrow's Nest, The, 104 

Stern Daughter of the Voice 
of God, 142 

Strange fits of passion have 
I known, loi 

Surprised by joy — impatient 
as the wind, 140 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very 
shower, iii 

Switzerland, Thought of a 
Briton on, 137 

The world is too much with 
us, late and soon, 135 

There was a Boy ; ye knew 
him well, Ye Cliffs, 121 

There was a roaring in the 
,vrind all nigf~t, 47 

There was a time when 
meadow, grove, and stream, 
147 

These tourists, Heaven pre- 
serve us ! needs must 
live, 78 

Thought of a Briton on 
THE Subjection of Swit- 
zerland, 137 

Three years she g.rew in sun 
and shower, 103 

Tintern Abbey. Lines Com- 
posed Above, 122 

To , 117 

To a Butterfly, 108 

To a Highland Girl at In- 

VERSNEYDE, III 

To a Skylark, 116, 118 
To Joanna, 39 



To Sleep, , 134 

To THE Cuckoo, 108 

To THE Daisy, 106 

Two April Mornings, 

The, 35 
Two voices are there; one is 

of the sea, 137 

Up with me ! up with me 
into the clouds!, 116 

Venetian Republic, On the 
Extinction of the, 137 

We Are Seven, 23 

We talked with open heart 
and tongue, 37 

We walked along, while 
bright and red, 35 

Westminster Bridge, Com- 
posed Upon, 136 

When I have borne in mem- 
ory what has tamed, 139 

When Ruth was left half 
desolate, 57 

When, to the attractions of 
the busy world, 42 

Where art thou, my beloved 
son, 45 

Who is the happy warrior? 
Who is he, 128 

Wisdom and spirit of the 
Universe!, 126 

With little here to do or 
see, 106 

With sacrifice, before the 
rising mom, 93 

Written in London, Sep- 
tember, 1802, 138 

Yarrow Unvi sited, 52 i 

Yarrow Visited, 54 I 

Yes, there is holy pleasure in 
thine eye!, 134 



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